I walked into my favorite coffee shop in the entire world a couple of weekends ago. It’s the first time I’ve ever been and I felt like I was home. It’s a cute little place in Franklin, slightly off the beaten path, sunny and bright, filled with flowers and yellow plaid. The warm wood welcomes you in as the smell of cinnamon rolls and espresso put your soul at ease. Their plates must be thrifted and antique, each one with their own little pattern and story.
It was a Sunday morning and sweet babies in their church outfits wandered around with sticky hands and squeals. I was just simply delighted. I sat across from one of the people that I love most of all. She’s a delightful human, proof that God does indeed know just what we need and when we need it. We drank our lattes and ate breakfast while we discussed what God was teaching us in this season.
I looked down at my yogurt and granola, trying to find the words to describe what I was feeling. Struggling to get my words right I said:
“Honestly, I can’t really verbalize it. I don’t know, friend. I’m lonely, confused, tired, weary. I just can’t quite figure out what He’s doing or what He wants me to do. My heart just feels continually broken and I’m tired of trying to figure it all out. I just need Him to give me a flowchart.”
There we sat, surrounded by people but suddenly it was just us two trying to reconcile the calamity of today. What I love about my conversations with this dear friend is that we don’t sugar coat anything. Things in our lives have been hell for us both. We don’t just sit there and point to Ebeneezer stones and pretend like that’s enough comfort to go from trudging through Sheol to skipping while whistling “This Little Light of Mine” because everything suddenly becomes hunky dory. It can help, but things are still not hunky dory at all. This sucks. Things are stupid. Life tends to make no sense. But here we are.
It’s funny how we have this phenomenon in Christian culture where some feel the need to put a mask on every bit of hardship. To take the suffering and dress it all up, making it appear like something it’s not. Because guys remember, we’re supposed to “count it all joy.” While I love James and do believe there is great value in our suffering, that we can count each suffering as a way to see God’s goodness and grace in a way we couldn’t before, we also are called to lament. To weep. The prophets lament, God grieves, Jesus wept, people suffer, accusations get thrown at God’s goodness and character all throughout Scripture. Where in the world is this pretty little picture that gets painted? The cross was not pretty. His death was excruciating, and it’s when we acknowledge that, we can then see its power in our own suffering.
In case you’ve been lied to, it’s ok to feel broken. It’s ok to look to the face of God with anger and frustration, and to question Him. Your suffering and mine doesn’t have to be wrapped into a bow and presented to others as a gift. Instead you and I can present it as it is, hard, painful, and deeply sad. Because when we present it as it is, that’s when the redemption and hope that Christ gives in our darkest moments has the most power. The truth paints the story so much more beautifully than masking all the lament with joy.
That’s exactly how this friend and I became sisters. She felt the Spirit speak to her and she listened, opened up about the suffering she had been through on our first coffee “friend date” and I looked at her in awe. She was honest and because of that I knew for the first time I could be too. I didn’t have to end my story with a “but now everything’s ok and I am totally fine.” No. I looked at her and said “me too.”
When Christ wept and lamented, when God said He holds our tears in a bottle, knows each tear that falls, and when He hears our desperate pleas, He doesn’t ask for us to rebrand it into something else. He looks at us and says “Me too.”
In Isaiah Christ’s sufferings are real, raw, honest: “He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (53:3).
Elizabeth Elliot, one of my favorite authors and speakers, said this in regard to that verse:
“If we learn to know God in the midst of our pain, we come to know Him as one who is not a High Priest that cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities. He is one who has been over every inch of the road. I love that old hymn by Richard Baxter, ‘Christ leads me through no darker rooms than He went through before.’ I love those words.”(Suffering is Never for Nothing)
He calls us to Himself WHILE we are weak and heavy laden and says we’re welcome. We’re known. We belong because our brokenness is welcome and held in His hands that were broken and scarred. Hands we can look at and see that He indeed can say “Me too.”
That may not comfort you now. Sometimes it doesn’t comfort me either. But regardless,
Your brokenness is welcome here and He welcomes it too.
Much love,
Holly
