If faced with someone I love who is about to kill themselves, what would I say?
Unfortunately, I know what I would say, because I’ve said it. Maybe you have too. Maybe it made a difference. Maybe it didn’t.
What would I say to God? Maybe where were you? What were you doing? Why didn’t you stop it? Where were you?
If I were God, what would I say? All will be well? I am with you? Fear not? Were you there?
If I were talking to a father brought to the death of his son, what would I say? If I were God, I could say I know how you feel. But I’m not and I don’t. I’m not God and I don’t know how it feels. So what would I say? I am so sorry.
Not . . . he’s in a better place. He may be – and so I believe – but what comfort is that in the keening pain of that excruciating loss?
Not . . . it was meant to be – for I do not believe that.
Not . . . I’m sorry he’s in hell, do you know Jesus? It makes Jesus trite . . . and mean . . . and stupid . . . and if I know nothing else, I know Jesus is not trite or mean or stupid.
Yet the question remains, why is it so very easy to know what I would not, should not, say, yet is it so very hard to know what to say? Maybe because saying isn’t the point, isn’t the needed thing, for words are not truth. And sometimes, they’re camoflauge for what is just too hard to name – this happened – it is real – and there just aren’t words. . .
If we don’t know how or what to pray, it doesn’t matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves . . . and keeps us present before God. –Rom 8.26-28
Unfortunately, I know what I would say, because I’ve said it. Maybe you have too. Maybe it made a difference. Maybe it didn’t.
What would I say to God? Maybe where were you? What were you doing? Why didn’t you stop it? Where were you?
If I were God, what would I say? All will be well? I am with you? Fear not? Were you there?
If I were talking to a father brought to the death of his son, what would I say? If I were God, I could say I know how you feel. But I’m not and I don’t. I’m not God and I don’t know how it feels. So what would I say? I am so sorry.
Not . . . he’s in a better place. He may be – and so I believe – but what comfort is that in the keening pain of that excruciating loss?
Not . . . it was meant to be – for I do not believe that.
Not . . . I’m sorry he’s in hell, do you know Jesus? It makes Jesus trite . . . and mean . . . and stupid . . . and if I know nothing else, I know Jesus is not trite or mean or stupid.
Yet the question remains, why is it so very easy to know what I would not, should not, say, yet is it so very hard to know what to say? Maybe because saying isn’t the point, isn’t the needed thing, for words are not truth. And sometimes, they’re camoflauge for what is just too hard to name – this happened – it is real – and there just aren’t words. . .
If we don’t know how or what to pray, it doesn’t matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves . . . and keeps us present before God. –Rom 8.26-28
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