God, are you there? Can you hear me? If you can hear me and it really is You, Abba Father, I don’t understand how what You’re putting me through is loving.
I was told that real love isn’t supposed to hurt. And I’ve been told there is no truer love than Yours.
But surrendering to You has been scary and painful. And You feel so far away, Elohim, that I can’t hear You telling me everything will be okay. I can’t feel Your loving wings around me.
I feel so lost having given up everything to You only to receive Your response as distance, not being here – no matter what, no matter if You’ve gone somewhere or if I’ve somehow gotten away from You.
I mean, isn’t Your love unfailing? Isn’t Your love going to pursue me all the days of my life?
You know me, God, where I go and what I need and how I struggle to accept some of the things I need. You know why.
Do I have to petition for Your compassion? Because here I am, Lord, on my knees after being broken in body and spirit, surrendering to Your will. Here I am, lying on the ground after being slammed against the rocks as the tide came in, begging for Our Father who art in Heaven to be merciful to me, knowing what kind of punishment I’ve had to endure to be stripped of all pride.
I’m humble now, aren’t I, Emmanuel? Haven’t I given up even the pride I kept hidden from myself?
I’m humble, Jesus, every hidden stitch of pride has been beaten out of me.
I’ve allowed myself to be held now, Abba Father. I’ve given myself to be cared for in my most vulnerable state.
And You let it happen in a way I didn’t even notice I was getting used to it.
But I did get used to it, Jesus, You know I did. Those arms became a safe place for me in a way I’ve never known safe places.
Such that, when these arms were gone and I didn’t feel comfortable calling out for them, even in my fever dreams, I cried out for a love and nurturing I’ve never known and therefore haven’t cried out for throughout most of my life, aware there would be no answer.
God, why have You made me this way? Where I cannot recognize what I have until it’s lost?
I can’t do this anymore. I know that sounds like the pride I surrendered to You, this unwillingness to endure more torture. I know that the pain I experienced before didn’t teach me what I needed to learn because I was making choices without consulting You. I’ve accepted there will be some pain making choices with You, in part to undo the pain that twisted my sight when I walked without You.
But I’ve reached a breaking point and I’m asking for mercy.
I know in the past I’ve been horrible at telling You when I needed mercy. I know that in the past I’ve chosen relentless beatings rather than to beg for mercy.
And You know why, God. You know that in the past when I’ve pleaded for some tiny show of compassion from certain humans, my pleas have only served as evidence that I was affected, which ignited the fire within them that drove them to hurt me in the first place. It only showed them that inflicting pain without ceasing did eventually net results.
You know I didn’t give up my voice without a fight. That all my fight was taken from me as I was strapped down, and that the loss was reinforced every day until my mind was colonized by fear.
Abba Father, You know because of some experiences that shaped my fears I don’t give up easily. That, in fact, that is an understatement. You’ve had to lock me into corners and tie all four limbs, force my eyelids apart so I could not look away from the pain of my loved ones even when I was absolutely helpless to offer even the smallest gesture of comfort and compassion.
And I’ve come to accept that some of the things I experience with You, Emmanuel, will be painful, that part of the why has to do with breaking my broken.
But I confess, I’m still afraid to do it wrong, Jesus. I’m afraid if I surrender too soon that we won’t really be fixing anything. And I’m afraid once I get past a certain point, my basal brain will take over and refuse to let go until You step in to slam me and my life into a brick wall.
I admit, Lord, that I have no idea where my line is. I confess that part of surviving the kind of torture I’ve endured in the past meant having to bury that line completely.
And when that line started to show through, it meant erasing the line.
I’m afraid I don’t have a line. And I admit, God, that what I’ve tried hasn’t worked. I confess, God, that I need Your help. I can’t do this alone.
Yet I’m afraid to need you.
I confess I’m even scared to ask for help with the fear of needing You, because I have no idea what life will be like after I do the work to burn away that fear. One of the fears I’ve known my whole life. The one that has laid more tripwires in my neural pathways than any other.
I think. I hope. Because at this point, the only mercy I can accept is that this fear I’ve been hijacked by is the last of fears in a series of fears I’ve walked back through hell to battle.
Still, the only thing I know with You is that I really know nothing at all.
I don’t even really know what I need. But I’m willing to ask for Your help, Jesus, one more time, if I can also ask that it be gentle.
I know it might not be. Because above all else, Elohim, I ask that Your will be done, not mine.