One Sunday after the sermon, our pastor challenged people to commit to Christ. I love seeing people changed and coming to Jesus. A young man in his early twenties standing in front of me professed his change. I rejoiced with him and with his friends or family that celebrated next to him. Then his mother came over and started crying. Uncharacteristically, I cried as well. I thought, “How odd!” I rarely empathize to this degree. Then I realized this was not empathy, but jealousy. I am still standing there with everyone else who is rejoicing and I am embarrassed, then angry, then depressed. The myriad of emotions flooded over me in moments.
She gets to rejoice in her adult son’s life and I do not get to rejoice with mine.
I am still standing there in shock at all that transpired with the momma still bawling in front of me as the church sings.
“This is my surrender…
I will make room for you to do whatever you want to…
Your way is better! Your way is better!”
I am supposed to sing that His way is better? That it is better for this momma to have her boy, to rejoice with him, while I weep for mine?
Late 2009 broke me. We lost Emily by miscarriage after twelve years of trying. My business burned. Donna had four surgeries and a skin disease that tore her open daily. This experience brought up questions and the only answers I could find were over-used platitudes written by people who never experienced deep grief. My questions turned into doubts, and the more I confronted them, the further the answers seemed. In 2008, I would be called a great Christian man of faith who regularly tithed, gave offerings, and served God by volunteering my time and energy. By 2012, even though I attended church with my family and everyone around thought I was the same Christian man, I was empty. Devoid of all belief for two years, I nearly stepped over the line into disbelief.
God let me see that line. I could feel it and it scared me! I came back into fully trusting and believing in my Creator, Savior, and Lord, but it took time and work. This story is detailed in my book, God Is In the Doubt.
In 2018, my son, Caleb, died by suicide at age 21. Yet again, I struggle with worshiping God. However, this time is very different because I have the prior experience of knowing that I should trust in the process, even when my trust in Jesus is difficult. The hardest questions were already answered the first time through.
There is no peace. Blame, guilt, constant questions, all torturous. I am not talking about what others say to us. I am talking about what I do to myself. Along with blaming and questioning myself, I do the same to God. “Why did you let this occur?! If I knew it would occur and had the power to stop it, I would, so why did you not?”
Occasionally, my church will sing Kari Jobe’s The Blessing. This beautiful song has a section:
May His favor be upon you
And a thousand generations
And your family and your children
And their children, and their children
My generations have been cut off. This song makes me feel like His favor is not on me. I just cannot sing this. The pain is too deep.
Another example is Jireh. Which part of these lyrics am I supposed to identify with?
I don’t wanna forget
How I feel right now
On the Mountain Top
I can see so clear what it’s all about
Stay by my side
When the Sun goes down
Don’t wanna forget
How I feel right now
I did not have a big problem overall with the song until this week when our worship leader pointed out from where the name Jireh comes. Abraham is the first recorded instance of using it as a name for God when He went up the mountain to offer his second son as a sacrifice, but God provided a ram instead. Abraham rejoiced in God the Provider because his son would be allowed to thrive, yet I am to rejoice despite my only son not even surviving.
I spent years regaining my faith. I had the wrong idea of who He is. I spent that time relearning by serving Him like a servant would their King. The questions did not stop. I still cannot sing some of the songs. But I sing more often than I cannot. I love Him anyway.
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