Right now, we are all facing the same storm. We might be in different boats—some are in catamarans while some are in rowboats—but we are all aware of the angry skies and dark waters surrounding us.
The thing about boats is that they float on the water. Whether a catamaran or a rowboat, they can be completely surrounded and still stay above the waves. They don’t sink until the water gets inside them.
You say that all I have to do is call to You, and You will tell me things I do not know.
So, tell me: Where are You?
I can’t read the news anymore. There’s so much pain in the world right now, and I can’t help but wonder—where is Your light? You say You have overcome the world, but we still have to live in it, and it is so very broken. I tell my children that You are a good and loving God who will protect them. But then, in the same breath, I have to explain why they aren’t allowed to see their friends or be near their grandparents.
Not from God, and not from each other. That wasn’t the plan God had for His creation.
We weren’t supposed to lose our mothers, fathers, children, spouses, siblings, or friends. God never wanted us to carry that kind of grief. Our hearts know it—that’s why there is something in us that cries out, “This isn’t right,” when our loved ones are stolen from us. And as we struggle with our sorrow, sometimes we can’t help but wonder how a good God could let us suffer.
Picture this: You’re watching someone prepare for a marathon. They are warming up, stretching, and maybe hopping from one foot to the other in anticipation. The atmosphere is electric. As they take one final deep breath, the gun goes off. Suddenly they bend their knees and leap as far as they can. After landing, they just squat down and jump again as other people run by them.
We would look ridiculous trying to leap our way through an entire marathon, so why do we assume that our faith journey should look that way? We want to experience these huge, defining leaps of faith without realizing that the small steps are just as important.