How to Survive God’s Silence

I was drowning in a vast ocean of emptiness. Why was God silent while I, who had followed Him faithfully for so many years, was begging for answers?

I mourned the loss of a baby who never truly lived. I buried the dream of children under the ashes of infertility. I screamed at the heavens for answers. I sat crumbled on the floor for hours and forced myself to breathe. And silence echoed.

Questions filled my journals and tears filled my nights instead of sleep.

Where are you, God? Where? What have I done to deserve your indifference?

By the time I turned to Scripture, I was dying for oxygen.

How to Prepare for God’s Silence

All of life moves in seasons. Sometimes things are bright as a glorious summer day, and the next moment winter bleakness has settled in.

I’ve faced some long winters.

Between a childhood in Alaska and adulthood in Northern New York, there are a few things I’ve learned about winter. You can survive it. You can. It’s entirely possible. But you have to do the work. You have to cut the wood, or fill the oil tanks, or store the coal. You have to be wise about where you go and who you listen to. You have to plan ahead.

In Alaska, winters include hours of darkness—days when the skies remain a muted gray and fade into black. Day after day after day.

The honest-to-goodness truth is that God allows us to go through winters in our souls, where things freeze and struggles abound. And we have to be prepared. We can’t be caught unaware. We need to have our fuel stored ahead.

The invisible qualities of God are clearly seen through His creation

Last evening our daughter came running into the house. “Mom, Dad! Come look!” We went outside to find thousands (it must have been!) of birds lining the electric wires for as far as we could see.

I watched my daughter’s face in between snapping pictures. There is something incredible about the way birds migrate, in the way they travel in huge flocks across miles and miles. Her eyes sparkled as she finished her chores, glancing over her shoulder to laugh at the chattering birds.

Later we went for a walk through the back field. The sun was glittering off the edges of the grass, glowing the mustard into stalks of gold, shimmering through branches and swirling patterns into the edges of the sky.

How to Learn Acceptance-With-Joy

Some evenings, my heart aches. It’s just a fact of life. Hearts beat, they bleed, they ache.

I ache for all that is wrong in me. The ways my-will rises and crashes within.

I surrendered it, you know. Years and years ago, under an ancient pine tree in North Port, Florida. I had been so angry, so livid, that God would ask me to give up what I wanted and accept-with-joy what He had for me. But I finally fell on my knees and gave up.

And then, little lessons, one after another. Friendships, plans, hopes, desires…

“Surrender,” He whispered in the damp, humid air. And I laid them down– built mini altars of faith. I knew the practice of faith in small things would prepare me for big things.

But how was I to know how big the things would become? And how was I to know that giving up my-will would mean surrendering my whole self?

I had no idea that I was embarking on a life-long journey toward learning to accept-with-joy.

true mother-love belongs to more than just mothers

There’s something intimate and beautiful that happens when a woman gives birth. Something glorious.

Or so I’m told.

“So, until you have your own baby,” I hear, “you just won’t understand.”

And when I believe them… something in my heart withers and dies.
There’s a special mother-knowledge that is only for those whose bodies aren’t broken. 

When I believe them… God has harmed me.
He has refused to give me good and has left me with broken hopelessness. 

But I have something to say. Something for all you who have mother-hearts and broken bodies.

I know mother-love,
and I have never born a child.

And you can too.

THE DAY GOD SENT ME A NOTE

I was sixteen that year, finished with high school and praying, “God, what should I do with my life?” It was a natural progression. God had shown up when I was twelve and by the time I was thirteen, I had been dipped down, down into the baptismal waters. Now three years had pasted in quietness and my heart was burning to know something.

My closest friend, Brianna, lived several miles away and many days we would walk and meet partway between our houses, at a little gazebo on the side of the road beside a large golf course.

Finding Delight in Difficulty

Beauty often hides in the strangest places. It surprises you, slipping in through a mist of cloudy darkness. How many times do I miss it? How many times have I wrapped myself up tight, focused only on my heart and my pain and me, me, me… and missed the grace of a loving God who redeems the ugliness of life?

I’ve been silent on this blog lately because I really thought there was nothing good to write about. We have faced hardship in almost every single area of our lives, and don’t I write enough about pain? Even I am getting a bit tired of it, as I’m sure the rest of the world is.

But then the Lord convicted me. “You aren’t looking at the right places,” He whispered, “if you stare at your own heart for long enough, you’ll be overcome. Stop looking at you and start looking at Me.”

Oh, God, forgive me.

Before this year even began, God told me that He was going to teach me to find delight.

Delight:  enjoyment, pleasure, happiness, joy, gladness, enchantment

I’ll be honest, I haven’t done so well. I’ve stared too hard at myself and held too hard to my sorrow and nearly been defeated with fear. Only a month has passed since the calendar switched to 2014, and I’ve rocked back and forth through the night hours, sleep staying out of reach as my mind and my thoughts have consumed me.

I’ve been wounded and I’ve wanted to lash out, to tear apart people with my tongue, to pour anger and frustration onto those who have hurt me. The ugly poison of my heart has been so near the surface, it has scared me silly.

My flesh is so full of bitter ugliness.
But God is so full of beautiful grace.

And when I listen— when I look past me— it’s amazing what appears.

Beauty often shows up in the strangest places.

• It slipped into the night when, in desperateness, I forced my mind to start quoting Bible verses. I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of Psalms. It was enchanting. A peaceful sweetness that rested more than just my body, but my heart. It was God, present. Glory.
• It arrived the morning when I sent the text to a friend, telling her of my hurt, and she and her husband appeared on our doorstep. Arms open, willing to cry with us, willing to ache for the loss I was forced to taste. It was deep joy. The way they shared our pain and spoke life into what felt like a sentence of death. It was God, present. Glory.
• It appeared the afternoon when another friend showed up on my doorstep with a bouquet of beautiful flowers and spoke blessings over my husband and me, our home, our ministry, our hearts. It breathed gladness. Filled my heart up full with love. It was God, present. Glory.
• It surprised me in a prophecy of hope. It poured in through the laughter of a little boy and his love for my husband and the “big truck” that he drives. It danced from heart-wrenching prayer times, which left me shaking with awe at the glory of God. Enjoyment. Pleasure. Happiness. It was God, present. Glory.

And the lesson I’ve learned?

Tasting the delight of the Father has nothing to do with experiencing delightful circumstances. It has everything to do with turning your head sharply away from your flesh. The heart of man is desperately wicked, but the glory of God? It leaks into every aspect of life, and His grace brings delight to the most difficult places.

And when I look at Him? When I delight? What pours from my heart is beauty instead of poison. 

I haven’t learned it all yet. But I am learning.
Thank goodness for a patient and loving Teacher. 

What about you? Have you learned the art of delighting, even in the midst of difficulty?

Why Your Greatest Struggle Is Also Your Greatest Blessing

When I was a teenager I had a certain plan for my life. It involved serving Jesus and it also involved 5-7 children and a house in the country.

I thought of my dreams as quite noble, really. After all, motherhood is good and right and God-ordained and beautiful. And I really would be happy with any house. It didn’t have to be big or grand. And I would even compromise on the country part, as long as there was a nice yard (and that’s just because I love God’s creation so much).

I’m not an extravagant person. I’m simple and my dreams were simple.

By the time I was in my mid-twenties, I was married to a wonderful man and living in a tiny house on a beautiful farm outside of a little village in upstate New York.

The only thing I needed was my children.

But, as it turns out, my body refused to bear them.

And, as it turns out, every time we’ve pursued adoption, it has failed.

These truths have caused me hours and hours worth of tears. These truths have torn me apart inside, ripping at my self-confidence, shredding my self-image, and leaving me very broken and very unlovely.

And I am very, very thankful.

I am thankful because there is a much deeper truth than my inability to have children.

You see, even though it was masked with self-confidence and a positive self-image, I was always very broken and very unlovely.

And there is a God who says that in Him I can be healed.

If I had attained everything I wanted; if I had insisted that as an American or as a Christian, I have the right to my dreams, I probably could have them by now. I could recreate my dreams into something personally attainable and continue life in a state that masks my true condition. I could.

But I’m thankful that God graciously ripped the blinders from my eyes. Because I don’t want that kind of life. I don’t want to feast on what is happy and pointless. I am hungry for what is real.

What is real is that I need Him.

Without Jesus, I will face the wrath of a Just God who cannot tolerate sin.

Without Jesus, I may have 60-90 years worth of earthly pleasure but it will never truly mask the brokenness and unlovely-ness that erodes my soul.

Without Jesus, I have nothing. Nothing at all.

And without this great struggle that leaves me gasping for breath, I would have completely missed Him. Instead, I would have clung to the image I had created of Him and never been forced to look at Him as He truly is.

I serve a God who is greater than my struggles,
but I would not have known this if I had not stumbled through them.

I serve a God who brings victory to the darkest of defeats,
but I would not have known this if I didn’t crawl through the blackness.

I serve a God who miraculously breathes new life into the ugly and broken,
but I would not have known this if I never looked honestly at my own emptiness.

I serve a God who cares nothing for earthly gain,
because He knows this world is but a moment.

I serve a God who gives good gifts,
but never at the expense of eternity.

And most of all, I serve a God who will judge my heart.
A heart that is desperately wicked.
And yet, I don’t have to fear.
I fear Him because of His awesome holiness, but I do not fear for my own safety before Him, because His Son bore the wrath of this Holy God for me.

And I am free.

This great struggle that has marked my adulthood, this word, infertility, that has carved its bloody letters into my life, these are my greatest blessings.

For in this broken, empty state, I am free to drink deep of God. To see Him for whom He truly is. Not as some great miracle-worker in the sky, but as a holy and gentle healer who walks beside me and sticks His hands right into the bloody mess that is my life and breathes hope.

And you.
You who are reading this.
You who are carrying struggles that may look very different than mine.
You who may even carry the complete opposite struggle, with children that drain you and cause you to lock yourself in the bathroom and cry.
You who have attained everything you desired but cannot escape your loneliness.
You who have managed to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and crawl to the top of the pit, only to find that there is no sky above you, no earth below you.
You who have buried crushed dreams and are left with bleeding hands.

To you I say:

Your greatest struggle is your greatest blessing. It is. Because it will force you to face truth. You cannot make your life great. You cannot create your own happiness, no matter what this world tries to tell you. You cannot.

And this truth will set you free.

Open your Bible, dear one. Start reading and don’t stop. Even when you’re confused. Even when it doesn’t make sense. Keep reading and you will find Him. He is God with us. He is right here. And the thing that crushed your soul can be used to open your eyes.

He will come and breathe life into you.
I know because that’s what He does.

How to find God in the middle of your pain

“Everything is packed,” she told me as she came down the stairs. I smiled a little. It had only been a few minutes since I sent her up so I told her perhaps I’d better check. We walked into the room and there were her dresses, still hanging. The clothes folded on the shelves. The stuffed animals piled happily on her bed.

“No, dolly,” I explained, “you need to pack up everything.”

“But I’m coming back,” she said, “to be part of your family. I can just leave some stuff here in my room.”

Oh, Lord, how does one explain courts and the laws of adoption to a child? 

We sat right down, there on the floor of her bedroom, and talked about how things weren’t decided yet but she was loved so deeply and so wonderfully that everyone was going to work to take care of her. The adults would talk and do paperwork. There just wasn’t any way to know ahead of time what would happen. We just have to trust.

She nodded and I helped her pack up everything that was hers.

After she left I went upstairs to shut the bedroom door and saw a bump on her bed. The nose of her little stuffed dog stuck out just the tiniest bit. I shook my head and turned to leave when I saw two of her dresses hung back up. Oh, the little dolly, I laughed to myself, I can’t wait until she comes home to stay. 

But sometimes things don’t go as you desire. And sometimes lawyer bills get paid and home visits take place and no one ends up coming home.

When the email came I shut the door tight on my dreams. We flew to Alaska and walked through moss-covered forests and somewhere in the middle, when I was crying out to God and aching in pain, He came and sat quiet with me. A month of peace followed, where I was able to trust and lay it all down and find rest in Him who is able to keep us from falling.

But sometimes the quiet comes just before the storm.

We arrived back home and I braved the stairs and opened the door and packed up a box of my little girl’s things and mailed them off to the place where she lives without me. It was over. I was done. I had made it. I took deep cleansing breaths and thanked God for holding me tight through it all.

Later, one afternoon, I was working on a project and needed a piece of material. I climbed the stairs absentmindedly and pulled open the drawers where my sewing supplies were kept.

Sometimes pain surprises you and before you can put your armor in place, the fiery darts pierce and tear at your heart. She had tucked them in, another pair of pants and a shirt. Her hopes of someday were wrapped up in the clothes that she had hidden away to be there when she came back. But all our hopes were gone and I ached so much all I could do was sit and cry.

When I finally found shuddering breaths all I wanted to do was curse God and this broken world and all the stupid pain that seemed to fill every part of life. “What was the point?” I demanded of Him, and my fists clenched to stop the shaking.

I couldn’t sleep that night, so wrapped in anger and sorrow, so I paced the house and held trembling hands to my aching stomach that twisted and writhed. All the vicious lies were back, mocking me, laughing in glee as they fed my mind with their condemning deceit. You’re not good enough. You’re not thin enough. You’re not rich enough. You’re not smart enough. If you had built a better house. If you had hired a better lawyer. If you had answered those questions differently. If you had… If you had… If you had… 

Finally, something in me snapped. I tore open my journal and started scratching hard words onto the pages. The curses and fears and sorrows and anger bit into the book and somewhere in the confusion, things began to make sense.

With You, God, there is unfailing love, remember?
With You there is full redemption.
So where is it? Is it really for me or is it just for the ones you love more?
Maybe I don’t deserve it. Maybe I’m just one of the dogs begging at your table. 

Tears blurred my vision because this is it, isn’t it? The greatest fear I carry, the reason pain debilitates me. I see the journey through pain as the lack of love. And I fear that I am unlovable and unwanted and unworthy.

But even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the master’s table. 

So I opened up to the book of John, there at my kitchen table at one in the morning, and started looking for miracles. Because all I needed was a crumb. Just a taste. Something to stop the starving ache that was tearing apart my insides.

And I found Jesus at the wedding supper, saying to His mother, “My time has not yet come.” And Mary not listening. And Jesus preforming a miracle for her. (John 2)

Then I found Jesus at the well with the Samaritan woman who is broken and unworthy, but to whom He gives streams of living water. (John 4)

The Official, who comes to Jesus to ask for his son to be healed. And Jesus rebukes them for needing miracles to believe, but His compassion is so great that He does what is asked. (John 4:43)

And Jesus, talking to the man at the pool, saying, “Do you want to get well?” But the man doesn’t answer the question. Doesn’t have any idea what Jesus is offering. He just gives excuses. And Jesus heals him anyway. (John 5)

Then we find the five thousand who are hungry, and the disciples who don’t know how to feed them, and Jesus who gives thanks and breaks the bread, and there are twelve baskets left over. (John 6)

And the voice of God thunders through my kitchen. For here we have found my true beliefs. 

I don’t believe. Oh, God, forgive me. I don’t believe there is even a crumb left for me?

His promise is more than enough. It is.

When I [personally] stand face-to-face with Jesus Christ and He says to me– “Believest thou this?” I find that faith is as natural as breathing, and I am staggered that I was so stupid as not to trust Him before. – Oswald Chambers

I couldn’t see because I wasn’t standing before Him.

The truth runs deep. To find God in the middle of my pain, I have to turn to Him. He’s right there. He is. With the bread of life and the living water held out with nail-pierced hands. But it’s my choice to face Him or curse Him.

And when I turn, when I reach out my hands, He fills them to overflowing. His Word reigns truth into my heart and my mind and the lies are silenced in the face of glory. And He Is. Even here where it hurts. He Is. 

Beer-Lahai-Roi: well of the Living One who sees me

Her story is the one that captures me. I suppose I should be caught up in the other-story, the one of promises and God’s miraculous gift of a child to a woman well passed the age of childbearing, but I’m not. I’m fascinated by her story.

She was a lot like me. Sometimes a victim, sometimes a prideful perpetrator, sometimes wounded, sometimes privileged.

She was the servant caught in the midst of a woman’s burning desire for family. A servant who made some poor choices when it comes to respect and honor. A servant who was mistreated and abused.

So she ran. Into the desert. Found refuge at a spring where an angel of the Lord appeared to her.

And suddenly the lowly servant is clinging to her own promises. You will have a son, the angel says, and he will become a great nation…”

These aren’t the promises for Abram or Sarai. These are her own.

“You are the God that sees me,” Hagar says, “for I have seen the One who sees me.” (Gen. 16:13) She named the spring, Beer-Lahai-Roi. Well of the Living One who Sees Me. 

————–

They were in the midst of a battle to extract themselves from a toxic church. When they stood for what was right they were maligned and abused. Unbiblical spiritual authority used to try and break them, crush the rebellion out of their hearts.

“You are in sin,” they were told when they would not give up their hold on truth, “and your prayers won’t go beyond the ceiling of your house.”

They cried. Hurt. Struggled through this dark weighty emptiness.

She stood one morning, at the end of herself, staring at the big maple tree in her front yard. Her husband was going to cut it down the next day, worried that it was growing too close, was too old. She couldn’t help but remember all the times she would stand and watch the robins perch on its branches. It was too late for robins that year, winter dancing close and the song of the birds disappearing for another season.

But she dared to pray, even though she wondered, worried, that perhaps they were right. Perhaps her prayers would only bounce off the ceiling of her home. “God, let me see just one more robin perched on those branches before the tree is cut down.”

She went to bed without having seen. The desert opening wide before her.

In the morning she heard something, slipped from the bed and rushed to the window.

It wasn’t a robin.

It was hundreds of robins.

They covered the tree. Covered the yard. Sat perched on her porch. Every direction, they were there. Never before had she seen anything like it. Robin after robin after robin.

It was an angel of the Lord appearing before her and whispering, “Perhaps you would have wondered if it was a coincidence had there been only one or two. Dear one, be not mistaken. I AM God and I hear you.”

She wept, lifted weary hands, clinging to a promise of her very own. Drinking deep and being revived from a hidden spring in the desert.

Beer-Lahai-Roi. The well of the Living One who sees me.

—————

It was a letter. A vicious letter. I was the least of the victims, all that was said about me was that I was a jerk, a fake Christian with a pride issue a mile long, nothing compared to the other accusations that flew.

But they were people I loved and I never expected it. Had no way to shield myself from it.

I was raw. And torn. And bloodied.

I curled up in a ball that night, rocking back and forth. The tears were so hot, I was certain they must be leaving trails of blisters on my cheeks.

“God,” I whispered through dry-cracked lips, “have I only been fooling myself? Am I really serving you if someone, a person that I only ever tried to love, can believe such things about me?”

Every mistake I ever made seemed to parade through my mind. I was a worthless sinner. One who couldn’t even show love to those closest to her, let alone a lost and dying world. Who had I been kidding? I was of no use to God, I was of no use to anyone.

It was the middle of the night when I finally got up. Put on sneakers. Walked to the park behind our house. The moon was large, stood out in the sky between the maple trees. I stared at it, feeling more empty and broken than I ever had before.

The words startled me. They seemed to be shouted from the heavens but I knew they were only echoing in my head. You are mine, they said. And it felt like the words were branded onto my skin.

The moon. The trees. The way the dew glittered on the stalks of grass.

The voice of the Father that labeled me. Chose me.

I suddenly realized that even if those accusations had been true, it was okay. Because I served a God who was looking for the lost and the broken and the sinners. He was inviting me in to His table, to feast on His glory.

He opened the well, poured water onto me. Life-giving water that soothed my wounds.

It was Beer-Lahai-Roi. The well of the Living One who sees me.

———————–

Friend, will you share your story? Your moment in front of Beer-Lahia-Roi? Your moment before the well of the Living One who sees you?  Leave it in a comment, or write it in a blog post and leave the web address for me. I would love to read it.