I turned the alarm off, sat up in my bed, adjusted my pillow into a cushion, closed my eyes and took a conscious breath. Before that breath was completed a thought popped up.
It's not a new thought, and it's one I've struggled with since I was a teenager. It caught me by surprise because it's 6:00 o'clock in the morning and I had just opened my eyes.
I took another breath and noticed my chest felt heavy and my head was hanging a little. I felt myself breathe into my chest in an attempt to lighten the feeling and I pulled my head up slightly.
Then I quit adjusting and settled in.
"So this is what I'm sitting with today," were the words I heard (almost audibly) in my head.
I tried to breathe and make peace with the struggle. Just to let it be and see what it felt like to just sit with my questions.
The struggle, it's all about God.
I took a breath and heard remnants of the conversation I had with my mom the night before on the phone. My uncle has a brain tumor and cancer. He's been sick for over a year. The other day brain surgery was scheduled. Then it was cancelled, too much risk. Then it was rescheduled and yesterday it was done. He had come through well, no loss of speech or sight.
"There were so many people praying," my mom had said.
As soon as she said those words I heard the question in the back of my mind, "Is there a certain number it takes to bend God's ear in order for God to answer?"
This is the type of question that has haunted me for years. I tried to let the thought pass and focus on the good news my mom was sharing. I guess it didn't go away completely and this morning I got to sit with it.
I breathed and noticed I felt irritated. I felt tension in my forehead. I'm tired of this struggle. I've made my peace with it. I'm comfortable with my answers. But here it was.
It's roots go back to my raising.
I was raised believing in an all knowing, all powerful, all loving God. Sounds good, right? Not so much, at least not for me. Those three things together created way too many questions in my mind. And in the church in which I was raised, questions were not always welcome. Faith. Faith was extremely welcome. Questions, not so much.
These three things together: the love, the power, and the knowledge, caused me a great deal of difficulty.
By the time I was in high school I had discovered that not everyone of my friend's lives were as perfect as mine. My life was a picture taken right on the very streets of Mayberry. It could not have been more perfect. However I had friends who were not so lucky.
I prayed for these friends. I prayed "fervently" and "without ceasing." And more times than not I didn't see a good answer from God. I often thought that if I had been all loving, all powerful, and all knowing I would have done things quite a bit differently (another thought that didn't sit well in my church). I would certainly have used that power to remedy some of the troubles I saw. And telling people that you thought God should be doing a better job, well that just wasn't done.
The answers I was given fell flat. "God was teaching them a lesson." "God allowed this to make them stronger." "Have faith and trust God's providence."
Platitudes.
And as I got older it didn't get any easier. As my world expanded past the walls of my small high school and I began to pay attention to the problems in the bigger world it just got worse.
God made less sense and I grew more angry and extremely sad with the overall state of the planet. There was much too much suffering and pain and trouble and heartache. And being told to just trust God, it just didn't cut it.
We weren't supposed to just trust God. There was a call to action. There was the "Great Commission."
Go, preach, baptize, save. It was at the very core of our faith.
But for me it fell short. Saving someone from Hell and getting them into Heaven when they died was wonderful. But so many people were living in Hell right now.
The questions didn't linger quietly. They screamed at me almost constantly. I'd hear someone say they prayed for safety and avoided a car accident. "Praise God," they'ed comment. I'd immediately think about everyone who prayed and hadn't avoided an accident. What about all the people who weren't healed or helped or protected or provided for? Did it have to be prayed at the right time, by the right number or people, saying it the right number of times? Did they have to have enough faith? What was the perfect formula? Was there a perfect formula?
I was angry at a God who would pick and choose. A few get answers. The rest get screwed.
"No is also an answer."
"Trust God. It's all part of a greater plan."
This was infuriating and felt heartless.
So back to my quiet time.
I paid attention to the irritation and I breathed. I noticed the familiar wrinkle in my brow. I took another breath. I felt frustration rumbling in my chest. but I tried not to push it away.
I sat and listened. I noticed my breath.
Then, once again, I remembered my mom saying, "There were so many people praying." And this time I did't notice anger. I noticed love. I thought about the love all of those people were sharing with my uncle and his family. I was grateful for love.
I thought back to more than ten years ago when a dear friend of mine lost two small children to two different horrific accidents. I told her I didn't have an answer about where God was when her children died. I didn't know why God didn't protect them. But I knew I was willing to sit with her and cry with her. I loved her and lots of other people did too. God? I didn't know. Love. Love was there.
And this morning, after fighting with my decades old struggle, that's where I found my thoughts settling.
Love.
I took another breath and felt love soften the anger in my heart. I took a conscious breath. I sat breathing in and out.
"Love lifted me."
As I typed those words, I suddenly noticed tears streaming down my face.
It's an old hymn I grew up singing. I know all the words by heart.
The chorus:
Love lifted me.
Love lifted me.
When nothing else could help,
Love lifted me.
I will sit with this love.
I will always have more questions than I have answers.
But more importantly than that, I have love. I love. I am loved.
"Love lifted me."
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