I just let the tears fall these days; I don't even wipe them away anymore. I intentionally strain to hear their sound as they form a path down my cheeks. I think of the God who knows the sound of falling tears; the God who knows His children so intimately that He catches every drop and stores them in His bottle. The tears do not go unnoticed before His throne, as I am so easily persuaded to think that they do. The prayers go beyond my bedroom ceiling as I lie there, begging for strength.
Out of the gloom there is a reminder:
For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand,
and says to you,
"Do not fear, I will help you."
I forget that.
I forget that it's not by my strength, or my will power, or my motives. I forget that promise when the panic attacks hit at six in the morning. I forget that when I am jolted awake realizing again that my son is dead. I forget that he is in heaven.
I wonder why they come now, after so many months of peace about God's good plan; so many months of watching His glorious work. I wonder if it's because I'm tired: consumed by busyness of my own making, too busy to keep my eyes focused on the cross, seeking my own Kingdom rather than His.
I know that God will do all things for my good, all things that will lead me to knowing Him deeper.
I recall the verse about suffering being granted from our loving, heavenly Father: a gift.
A gift to know Him, a beckoning into fellowship, an opportunity to forsake the ways of the world if I will take it. But it is a gift with a great cost. Often times I don't want it. Gently, though, God presses in. The tears end, the peace takes over, the words flow, and grace consumes.
I will trust my Savior Jesus for where He leads me.