Tuesday

There's really nothing intrinsically easy about this experience. It's hard to be tired, it's hard to be worried. It's brutally difficult to watch human suffering, especially when your own flesh and blood must endure the brunt of the attack. It's maddening to watch it all happen and be unable to stop it or make it markedly better. But it is what it is. It's our lot. I can own it. I don't want to own it, but I can. And I do.

I've had a lot of little thoughts ping ponging around in my brain of late. Primarily, when I see suffering in the face of my sunshine, I question God. Not His existence, nor His plan, nor His greatness. Nor his power or glory. Nor His great love for others. What I question is His great love for me. Because I don't feel loved.

It's not been an easy life for me. I know, I know: Everyone faces challenges. But as Pastor Mike once said to me, some people do indeed have to walk more difficult, pain-filled paths than others. And although I'm hesitant to go into detail, believe me when I say that mine has been hard -- very hard and very painful -- at various times. I've struggled with what was probably depression in the past; the kind of sadness that you can't just shake or get over by humming a happy tune. I'm not really in a place like that now; no, I'm too emotionally detached to feel depressed. I'm sad, but not as low as I've been at other times.

Of course, I know that love doesn't always mean you get what you want. I know that discipline is a form of love, when done in a loving manner. But I feel beaten, punished in a cruel fashion. Love? No. Scorn? Yes. Disapproval? Absolutely.

I worry that Logan won't be healed because God doesn't love me enough to give me the one thing that my heart wants more than anything else. I worry that despite my intellect and my book-smarts knowledge of God's nature telling me otherwise, this is indeed some sort of harsh punishment for an indiscretion long forgotten. I've always feared God more than anything. Because of my experiences, I've spent much of my time tip-toeing through life, trying to be as perfect as possible in a fruitless attempt to avoid further censure. Clearly, those attempts failed. Miserably. It's not that I expected them to work; I merely hoped to avoid more searing, crushing pain.

And I know that a lot of you will want to correct me here, but I'll just gently remind you that you aren't me; you don't know my full story. I'll also say that this was very difficult to write, so please respond in kind fashion, if you choose to respond at all. More than anything, please pray for Logan to be made well.

And I'll do the same. And I'll also pray for my own unbelief.

Good night and thank you.