This week’s children Sunday school lesson is about trusting the God who is like a shepherd to us, making us lie down in green pastures and leading us besides still waters. He is a God who is patient with us.
I guess this speaks to me because isn’t my moodiness, in a way, a complaint? “I’ve got a new complaint”
I don’t know, is religion meant to just make us feel bad about ourselves and how we don’t measure up? I know it’s not, that it’s precisely the opposite, namely, our sin can’t go where God’s grace hasn’t already gone..
Yet in my worst moments, I replay possible misunderstandings over and over in my head, wonder how I could have done or said things differently, mull over how inane a follow up response would be now. I imagine that the saddest truth is the loss of love and grace, and believe it. I despair.
How can I legitimately express my feelings and be heard, when already I hear the ready rebuke: choose an attitude of thanksgiving, do what is right, humble yourself before the Lord, you are not beyond redemption, least of all you.
I want so much for life’s circumstances to change, it’s painful, I can’t endure even if the way a violin produces sound is a bow drawn over a hollowness; even if there is light if I keep trucking (“there has to be”); even if Love came and sat next to me. I fear I’d walk the other way.