Bless me, Father

I know, I know--some "writer" I am. Pure silence coming from me. So I decided I needed to do a blast draft of a short story. This is based on a true story--something that happened to a friend of my mother's in Costco just before Thanksgiving a few years ago:

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been about 50 years since my last confession.”

Edith felt a surge of self-consciousness and began to pick little bits of Styrofoam from the edge of her coffee cup. She stared at her half cup of bitter coffee as the priest across the table from her took an awkward bite out of a half smoke. Father Martin realized he had put way too much mustard on the half smoke and wondered if he could walk over to the condiment bar and get more napkins. But Edith had just said the first words of her confession and, thus the sacrament had begun. The excess mustard would have to wait.

It was two days before Thanksgiving. When Edith saw the long checkout lines at Costco she immediately regretted going there to do her grocery shopping. But she needed some wine and a gigantic pumpkin pie to bring to Melody and Gary’s house and she had promised to bring a veggie platter to the pre-Thanksgiving volunteers’ luncheon at the Veterans’ Home. She calculated how long it would take if she just ditched her cart, left Costco, and went to her little neighborhood market but decided just to stay in line and get it done. She began to chat with the middle-aged friendly man in line behind her, the man with the kind face whose cart was full of apple cider and frozen turkeys. They quickly bonded in their agreement that it was crazy to have expected a quick trip to Costco so close to the holiday that was centered on food. But maybe it was just part of getting in the holiday spirit.

"You must be having a lot of people for dinner,” Edith said, nodding in the direction of his cart.

“Oh, no,” he said. “These turkeys aren’t for me. I’m the pastor of Our Lady of Mercy and we give turkeys to all of our church staff members for Thanksgiving.”

Edith’s face turned red. “You’re a priest? Oh, I’m so sorry, Father. I didn’t know you were a priest.”

“No reason to be sorry,” laughed Father Martin, “I’m here in disguise, dressed as a real human being.”

The line barely moved. Among the bright lights and the clamor of carts and voices and electronic gadgets, Edith began to tell Father Martin her life story. She had been raised Catholic and she was a young German war bride in the wake of World War II. Her husband Al was in the U.S. Army, an officer with the final wave of liberation troops. She married Al and moved to America in 1946, leaving behind her German heritage and her Catholic faith. And now Al, his memory nearly completely gone and his body failing, would probably soon die. She feared being alone and she wondered what would become of her without her husband. She told Father Martin that she thought it ironic that she unknowingly struck up a conversation with a priest, when in the past few months she had felt a strange need to return to the church of her youth.

“Sometimes I drive by the church and feel like God is telling me to go to confession and come back to church. But I never do it. I just keep driving.” She got out her Costco membership card and began to unload her purchases on the conveyor belt.

“Don't think about it too hard. Why not do it?” asked Father Martin. “Let’s just do it here. I can hear your confession now. Find a table in the café and I’ll meet you there as soon as I’ve paid for my turkeys. Trust me, God is speaking to you and there’s no time like the present.”

Edith looked at him and nodded, wondering what she had just agreed to do.

So she got a cup of coffee and a pretzel and found a table under an umbrella, off to the side near the ladies room. Father Martin bought his half smoke and pulled up his cart beside hers. He sat next to her so her so he could hear her quiet voice with his good ear. And it seemed that Edith and Father Martin were the only two people in the Costco café on that busy day before Thanksgiving.

Empty nothings

How then will you comfort me with empty nothings? There is nothing left of your answers but falsehood. Job 21:34

 

Sometimes it seems I’m walking through this process so slowly that I barely perceive any progress. Yet, when I look back I can see how far I have come. I still have so much to learn about grief, about what it really feels like—for myself, at least—and my insights, my perspective keep evolving.

I’m attending a church-sponsored grief support group that has been so enlightening, so much comfort. When I hear the stories of other group members whose losses have been more recent, I remember the numbness and the utter heartbreak of my earliest days. We recently discussed how others may try to give us comfort but fall far short of true empathy. I suppose I should not be so critical of others who are trying to help those of us who are grieving, but it often seems that the well-wishers just can’t bear to see our pain and want us to “move on” and get back to our lives. They often say exactly that. What they don’t understand is that there may be no old life left, that what we need is to create is a new life without the person we have lost, to find a new normal. That process takes a lot of time.

Many in the grief support group have had the experience of someone telling them that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. I’ve had this happen, too. I had a friend hand me a homemade laminated card that said, “Remember that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” I threw the doggone laminated card across the room and said, “Well, then, God is wrong. This is more than I can handle.” I probably frightened her and seemed ungracious, but it’s true—sometimes God does give you more than you can handle.

In the Book of Job we read of the unbelievable trials of a good man named Job. Some people added to Job’s troubles by giving him laminated cards that said God wasn’t giving him more than he could handle. Others comforted him—thank you Lord, for sending other people to walk beside us, to be our friends in the darkest hours. And Job’s ultimate comfort came from faith in God, from trusting Him.
 

Sometimes I lose that trust in a good God. I think God has abandoned me to face all of it alone. I think if He is all-powerful then He would fix things, that He wouldn't let people I love die, and He wouldn't allow wars and an endless stream of human heartbreak. But that's not the way it works. We are human. We have broken hearts and broken lives. Gradually we learn that grief is the cost of loving someone. All the while He is with us. Even when we think He has given us more than we can handle.

 

 

Who do you love?

A few days ago I was having a conversation with a friend about whether, under any circumstances, I could ever get into another relationship. Like with a man. (I’m breaking out in hives just thinking about it.) She posed to me a series of questions:

Could I love a man who is much older than me? “How old is much older?” I asked. She throws 80 years old out as a theoretical possibility. Nope, not going there. My mother is in her 80s and I go to her senior residence all the time and see those old men. No appeal. I don’t want to be taking care of a very old man, no clipping hairs out of his ears or wiping drool off his chin.

Could I love an obese man? Oh, Lord, this is tough. “I need to be able to get my arms around him,” I reply. Honestly, I don’t care if he’s a little overweight but obese? I’d worry about his health. I don’t want to fall in love with someone who I expect to die soon.

Could I love a man from another race or culture? “Yes, absolutely. That might actually be a plus. I may have reached my limit with white Anglo-Saxon men.”

Could I love a man who was dull or a little slow intellectually? “Nope. I want to be able to talk to him. Lively, intelligent conversation is an incredible aphrodisiac.”

Could I love a man who was a Republican? Oh, no, not the Republican question. In my mind I scroll through the Republicans that I know. John Boehner? Mitch McConnell? Dick Cheney?!! Surely there are other Republicans, people whose political philosophy is Republican but who have hearts, who are kind and generous, who don’t tie their dogs on top of their cars, who aren’t smug and obstructionist. I don’t know if I could love a Republican. That’s a really tough question. You can judge for yourself if you think these men are loveable.

 

Shower curtain festival

Don't ever accuse me of being shallow. I think I heard somewhere (I'm lying) that the Tuesday before Thanksgiving is National Shower Curtain Appreciation Day. So in honor of this important day I'm having my own private shower curtain festival. I know how to have fun.

I decided my guest bathroom needed a little spiffery. I've sewn shower curtains before and I was going to make shower curtains for the little bathroom that previously only had a simple white plastic curtain that looks like lace. The fake lace has been fine for years but when I get the bug to do a house project I won't rest until it's done. But instead of finding the fabric and getting out the sewing machine, I found these at World Market. Can I just say how much I love World Market? So--voila!--they are up. I've got this thing for having two curtains because I think it makes the room look much more done. The functional plastic curtain is on a separate rod just behind the one with the fabric. You might be able to see it peeking out.

So go out and buy yourself a shower curtain and have a happy day.

Raisin oatmeal pecan cookies

I felt obligated to undo the nausea I induced with my last post. I am repeating a recipe that I posted before. It's Ina Garten's recipe, my photo. These cookies are incredible.







Raisin Oatmeal Pecan Cookies

1 1/2 cups pecans

1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature

1 cup dark brown sugar, lightly packed

1 cup granulated sugar

2 extra-large eggs, at room temperature

2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon kosher salt

3 cups old-fashioned oatmeal

1 1/2 cups raisins

 

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Place the pecans on a sheet pan and bake for 5 minutes, until crisp. Set aside to cool. Chop very coarsely.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, beat the butter, brown sugar, and granulated sugar together on medium-high speed until light and fluffy. With the mixer on low, add the eggs, one at a time, and the vanilla.

Sift the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt together into a medium bowl. With the mixer on low, slowly add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture. Add the oats, raisins, and pecans and mix just until combined.

Using a small ice-cream scoop or a tablespoon, drop 2-inch mounds of dough onto sheet pans lined with parchment paper. Flatten slightly with a damp hand. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until lightly browned. Transfer the cookies to a baking rack and cool completely.

Jello with sausage

Since it's almost Thanksgiving and you normally eat way too much I want to give you some help in curbing your appetite. Maybe you just need to look at this lovely dish called Windsor Sausage in Jelly. If merely looking at the photo doesn't kill your appetite from now until sometime after 2014 rolls around, then perhaps I need to list for you a few of the ingredients: gelatin, luncheon sausage, hard-boiled eggs, and Worcestershire sauce. It's not complete without the radish and parsley garnish. Yes, I have the full recipe, and if you really want it, you can beg me. Bon appetit!

Arnold's cranberry sausage stuffing

This recipe is legendary. I've been searching through my cookbooks because I could swear that somewhere in those shelves of books I saved the actual recipe cut from the plastic bag that contained the stuffing cubes and tucked it between some pages. Somewhere. It was handed down through generations of a family (for illustrative purposes only, let's say it was the Mueller-Scharffenberger family). I've been making this recipe for many years and everyone who has it says it's the best stuffing they've ever had. Turkey is overrated; the stuffing is not.

Arnold’s Cranberry Sausage Stuffing

1 (15 oz.) Arnold's stuffing with seasoning
2 eggs, slightly beaten
4 medium onions, finely chopped (1 ½ cups)
6 stalks celery, finely chopped (2 ½ cups)
1 lb. pork sausage, pan fried and drained
1 can (8 oz.) jellied cranberry sauce (beaten until thin)
1 to 2 cups apple juice

Mix the stuffing mix, cooked sausage, onions, celery, eggs, and beaten cranberry sauce. Add apple juice a little at a time, until entire mixture is dampened but not mushy. For less moist stuffing use less apple juice. Stuff 18 - 20 pound turkey. Roast turkey as directed for weight. Extra stuffing can be baked separately in covered casserole for 30 minutes at 350 degrees.

 

 

A strange melancholy

"At first sight there is something surprising in this strange unrest of so many happy men, restless in the midst of abundance . . . To these causes must be attributed that strange melancholy which often haunts the inhabitants of democratic countries in the midst of their abundance, and that disgust at life which sometimes seizes upon them in the midst of calm and easy circumstances." Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America, vol 2, published in 1840

 

The term “strange melancholy” has been stuck in my brain. I saw the words used in a slightly different context and decided to track it down to its source.

Yes, I remember learning about Alexis de Tocqueville in American History classes but I recall no details of his observations of the American people in the early years of our nation’s independence. Although he wrote nearly 200 years ago, what he wrote in 1840 could have been written today.

I live in a very affluent area. I’m a leftist evangelical Christian, slightly crazy woman who shops in thrift stores and hangs laundry on the clothes line. I paint furniture and sell it. I’m surrounded by wealthy conservative CEOs and diplomats who have personal shoppers and laundresses. My little community is what I call “the cheap seats” and the value of my townhouse is well below the average for the surrounding area, where it’s hard to find a house for under $1 million. Parking lots here are full of fancy Range Rovers and high-end sedans. Women wear fur coats to the grocery store. Skinny teenaged girls with perfect smiles and perfect skin talk about being bored while they flip their perfect hair. They have designer clothes before they are old enough to drive. I see them drinking lattes at Starbucks in their riding clothes. Their mothers look perfect too.

But I overhear snippets of their conversations with friends at the coffee shops or on their cellphones. They don’t seem happy. In the midst of abundance their focus seems to be on what they still need, their frustration over what they can’t control. In the midst of abundance, many of their hearts seem strangely empty, their lives untethered.

I sometimes envy their material wealth, their beautiful houses, their vacation homes by the sea, their gorgeous clothes, their toned bodies, and their fancy parties. I envy them until I smack myself upside the head and remember that those things that I sometimes covet are just empty trinkets. The abundance that truly fills the heart is so much more than trinkets.

So Alexis de Tocqueville got it in 1840. Some things haven't changed. He saw that people can have seemingly abundant lives, full of material things, and still be sad. They chase their tails, trying to get more things, more abundance, and don’t find contentment. I can’t claim perfect contentment either, but I think I’m beginning to learn that the source of true abundance is not of this Earth.

Philippians 4:11-13 “ . . . for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. ¹² I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. ¹³ I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”

 

A closer walk

I am weak but Thou art strong;
Jesus, keep me from all wrong;
I'll be satisfied as long
As I walk, let me walk close to Thee.
 
From an old traditional hymn, Just a Closer Walk With Thee

God is sovereign, powerful beyond my mere mortal understanding. And I am weak. Even my weakness is beyond my mere mortal understanding. Can I draw close enough to Him to absorb by osmosis (or by some other means that I can’t understand) just a scintilla of His strength? Can I touch the hem of His garment and get all I need?

Yesterday was rough for me, especially last night. I was thinking about Mike, thinking about the early days, and I followed it through to how it ended, how he died loving me. And I cried, nostalgic tears but also tears of gratitude, tinged with sorrow. I thanked God that I could still be grateful, despite the grief.

This morning I sat at my kitchen table in prayer. I had a feeling that I can only feebly explain—it was an incredible sense that the Lord really was there, listening to me, being with me. I began to pray, not in a distracted, detached way, but with real fervor, almost a sense of urgency. I realized that I had clenched my fists and told myself, no, I can’t clench my fists, I can’t try to be strong on my own; I must be with Him and rely on Him from a position of receiving. So I prayed with open arms.

I poured it all at His feet, told Him I wanted to draw closer and closer to Him, to rely only on Him. I can’t do any of it on my own. My ideas for what I expected my life to be have not materialized. I want to believe in Him with all my heart and I want to know that my truest joy will come with unwavering trust in His plan for my life, not my failed plan. I don’t want to fear the winds of change or fear facing the rest of my life alone. I want to be able to withstand the grief that life throws at me, knowing there is something much better beyond this frail human existence.

All the while, my arms outstretched in supplication and tears running down my face, I still had a nagging doubt about my sense of God’s presence. Was it real? And the words, “I am with you always,” came to me, unbidden, like vapor in the air. And I felt compelled to open the Bible.

I opened my big ESV study Bible—thousands of pages—to exactly the page in John 16 where I read these verses:

 “Yet I am not alone, for the Father is with me. ³³ I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” John 16:32-33

 It was such a moment of pure grace. I have never so strongly felt the presence of the Holy Spirit. “It’s true,” I said. “It’s really true—God exists. How could I ever have doubted?” I laughed and cried, thanked Him, and asked Him to let me keep this assurance until the end of my days.

Barabbas

 

 

The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I come that they may have life and live it abundantly. John 10:10

 

 

 

 

 

I once saw a person with “I am Barabbas” tattooed on his arm. Perhaps we should all be called Barabbas.

The Gospels describe the scene as Jesus stood before Pontius Pilate, awaiting his sentence. It was the tradition during the festival time that the governor (Pilate) asked the crowd to choose one prisoner to be released. Pilate gave the crowd the choice of Jesus or Barabbas, a notorious prisoner who was imprisoned for many crimes. The chief priests and the elders had stirred up the crowd to release Barabbas and destroy Jesus.

And he (Pilate) said, “Why what evil has he done?” But they shouted all the more, “Let him be crucified!” Matthew 27:23

It is impossible to know what Barabbas did after being freed from prison. Did he go to Calvary and see Jesus crucified? Imagine Barabbas seeing Jesus nailed to the cross. That torturous death should have been his fate, but he drew the “get out of jail free” card. Did he take to heart the fact that an innocent man died in his place?

God saved the world through the righteousness of one man. Jesus’s sacrificial death paid our debt in full. Aren’t we all Barabbas—guilty as charged? Aren’t we all notorious sinners, not worthy of the death of the son of God?

Uphill

It’s a perfect fall day. The sky is deep blue and the leaves are in full glorious color. I decided it was a good day to screw on my courage and take a walk in the old neighborhood.

I used to walk various routes through the neighborhood nearly every day when I lived there. But it has been fourteen years since I moved out of the house, and although it’s only about a mile from where I currently live, I have seldom dared go there.

I loved the house—it was an extensive renovation and rebuilding project that I designed and managed. When my divorce was finalized the house was sold and I had to leave. In past years, being in the neighborhood reminded me of what I lost and seeing the house made me cry. It was just another grief.

So today I parked several blocks away and started walking. Funny, I thought, I don’t remember the hills being so steep. I’m fourteen years older now—have I aged that much or did the hills grow? I walked past the house. It’s still beautiful and the landscaping has matured. It was okay—it didn’t occur to me to cry. I felt proud that I had created it, that a big part of me is in that house, whether I live there or not. The neighborhood streets were familiar and I took comfort in being there. It was almost triumphant. I've reclaimed that part of my life in a new way and I think I'll be walking through the neighborhood often from now on.

Moments of grace

Yesterday started out rough—I was feeling the heavy weight of grief, depressed, lonely, angry, withdrawing. I questioned God’s role in all of this, wondered if He really hears my prayers. Yet I prayed, fervently pleaded with Him to be all I need Him to be. I said I was just going to place my pain at the foot of the cross, that this was one of the times I couldn’t carry it alone, and asked Him to take the weight of my heavy heart.

I muddled through the day, periodically saying, “Lord, please get me through this. I can’t do it alone. Please, do something.”

And late in the day I got a couple of encouraging e-mails from a woman I know who has experienced deep grief. One of the things she said was that there are blessings to be found in all things, that I just need to open my eyes to see them.

As soon as the sun set, the doorbell started ringing—trick or treaters. Sweet little kids and teenagers and many parents who stood behind at the sidewalk. They were all polite and full of joy. By 7:30 I had run out of what I thought was a huge amount of candy. My brother was with me and we kept count—our tally was nearly 250 kids. So, with no more candy to distribute, I turned out the lights. Yet the doorbell rang. It was a group of young teenage boys. I told them I was sorry, but I had run out of candy. They were polite and started walking away. I said, “Well, I can offer you a can of cat food or a package of dried beans.”

A kid with braces, dressed as a Rastafarian, or perhaps a white Bob Marley, walked back up the steps and said, “Wait! You have beans? Cool! Beans are healthy.”

So the Rastafarian came back up the steps and I gave him a bag of heirloom dried beans. He told me he knew how to cook them and accepted them gladly. Then he hugged me.

I don’t think I’ve ever been hugged by a Rastafarian after I gave him a bag of heirloom dried beans. Thank you, Lord, for reminding me that grace is all around me.

Chicken sweet potato chili with kale

The search for the perfect chili is never-ending. I think it should stay that way, ever searching for perfection. I think I got this one from a friend who entered it in a chili cook-off. She graciously shared the recipe with me. The unusual addition of sweet potato and kale is quite interesting and delicious.

 

I've got a note on this that says it has been revised and I revised some more, but the original source was Cooking Matters. Give credit where credit is due. My photo.

 

Chicken Sweet Potato Chili with Kale

Olive oil
2 pounds ground chicken breast
1 large onion, chopped
1 large unpeeled sweet potato, washed and cut into chunks
4 medium carrots, peeled and sliced
2 large red bell peppers, seeded and cut into medium dice
2 stalks of celery, sliced into bite sized pieces
6 garlic cloves, peeled and finely minced
2 cups chicken stock
2 15 ounce cans of kidney or black beans, drained and rinsed
2 28 ounce cans diced tomatoes
1 bunch of kale, washed, dried, stripped from the central rib, and cut into ribbons
Handful of okra pods (0ptional)
4 tablespoons chili powder (or more to taste)
2 tablespoons ground cumin
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
Optional garnish: Lime wedges, jalapeño slices, sour cream, or fresh cilantro

 

Place a large, heavy bottomed pot over medium-high heat and pour in about a tablespoon of olive oil. When the oil is hot, brown the chicken, working in batches until it is nicely caramelized. Remove the chicken from the pot and place in a bowl.

Add more olive oil if necessary, then add the onions, carrots, and sweet potato to the pan until the vegetables have started to soften, and the onion is golden brown, about 8-10 minutes. Add the garlic, celery, and red pepper and cook another 4-5 minutes. Add the chili powder and cumin and stir.

Add the beans, tomatoes, browned chicken, and chicken stock to the pot and bring it to a simmer. Lower the heat to medium-low and cook gently for about 15 minutes. Add the sliced kale and okra and cook another 10 minutes or so, or until the carrots and sweet potato are just tender.

Check for seasoning, adding more chili powder and salt and pepper as needed.

Add garnish if desired.

Serves 10-12

 

Fadda, Fadda

“Older women likewise are to be reverent in behavior, not slanderers or slaves to much wine. They are to teach what is good, and so train the young women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled, pure, working at home, kind, and submissive to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be reviled.” Titus 2:3

Uh-oh. Fail. Suppose it’s too late to get a Bible that does not include these instructions to older women, a group that includes me. I was trying to grasp all the finer points of this, trying to figure out how to improve my behavior to live more in line with the teachings of scripture. I thought back to all the times in Catholic school when one of the parish priests would come into our classroom to teach religion and the students got to ask the priest questions. And I imagined what it would be like if the priest came before a group of “older women” who got to ask questions about this passage from Titus.

Father O’Brien reads the passage from Titus 2 and all the hands in the room go up. “But Fadda, Fadda,” they say in unison.

Father: “Yes, Mary Margaret.”

Older woman: “Fadda, can you tell me how much wine this means? It doesn’t mention beer, vodka, or pomegranate passion margaritas with salt. Can we just let our conscience be our guide?”

Father: “Perhaps we need to discuss this in the confessional. Next question? Mary Anne?”

Older woman: “About teaching younger women to love their husbands and children. Do we teach them to love the ungrateful slobs when they smoke those stinkin’ cigars in the house and walk all over my clean carpets with muddy shoes and—"

Father: “Perhaps we need to discuss this in the confessional. Next question? Mary Catherine?”

 

Older woman: “This self-control thing, Fadda. My idiot sister says I have no self-control when it comes to jelly doughnuts. How do I tell her with loving Christian kindness that it’s none of her damned business how many jelly doughnuts I eat?”

Father: “Perhaps we need to discuss this in the confessional. Next question? Mary Theresa?”

Older woman: “I need you to clarify the pure thing, Fadda. What about Isabelle McCafferty when she wears those tight skirts to the K of C dances and sits on all the men’s laps?”

Father: “Perhaps we need to discuss this in the confessional. Next question? Mary Frances?”

Older woman: “About this working at home thing. Fadda, I work my ass off at home [muffled giggling in the room]. Oh, sorry, Fadda, I shouldn’t have said ass in front of you. [She makes the sign of the cross.] Except for the mornings when I drink my coffee and the afternoons when I watch my stories on the TV. I’m exhausted. How much work does this mean?”

Father: “Perhaps we need to discuss this in the confessional. Next question? Mary Kathleen?”

Older woman: “Fadda, you said women should be kind and submissive to their husbands. My late husband, Mr. McGuire—may he rest in peace—drank like a fish, played cards, and never lifted a finger to help me. He was a good man. But he told me to stop nagging, to get off his back, to leave him alone. Should I have been kind and submissive or should I have kept trying to straighten him out?”

Father: “Perhaps we need to discuss this in the confessional. I must go now and tend to my priestly duties. Have a blessed day, ladies.”

 

Older women, in unison: "Thank you, Fadda."

Hmmm . . . I seemed to have strayed far from the Titus text. Perhaps I need to discuss this in the confessional.

A prayer for God's existence

The thing about grief is that it doesn’t really go away. You may feel reasonably happy, content, at peace with the loss. Then another wave hits you. After time part of the sorrow becomes knowing that it’s just going to be this way forever. Maybe it will wane in intensity, but what you’ve lost won’t come back. It’s the human condition.

This morning I awoke with a heavy heart, a remnant of some dream that I sensed in my gut but could not recall the details. So I prayed, trying to praise God for His glorious grace, trying to thank Him despite my heavy heart. I just needed some comfort.

 

“ . . . as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.” 2 Corinthians 6:10

I walked deeper into the pit. I prayed, pleaded with Him to exist, to make my faith stronger so I can hold on to Him—without doubt—during these waves. I needed to feel God’s presence, needed something as tangible as to see Him walking into the room. He didn’t appear.

Could it be possible that there is no God? What are these prayers if He doesn’t exist? Just a lot of noise in the constellation? The whining, pitiful pleading of an old woman in Virginia, planet Earth? Where do the prayers go if there is no God? Like a child’s letter to Santa Claus—written with love and belief and yearning—do they go to the dead letter office at the North Pole? Does some parent, in an attempt to keep up the charade a little longer, write a response in Santa-like penmanship?

I will not accept that God doesn’t exist. I look at the sky at night, see the Rocky Mountains, look at the miracle of my five grandchildren, and I have to believe there is a power that created all of this. I see how things have been designed—from the order of the cosmos down to the intricacies of the smallest organisms—and I have to believe, want to believe it is the work of a good and sovereign God. No, I don’t simply want to believe it, I plead to believe it.

Please exist, Lord. Please let your plan of salvation be real. If my prayers are going to a dead letter office I don’t want to know. Let me be full of awe, full of faith, confident that there will be a happy ending to this story. Let me hold on to your promise to the end of my days.