Lament

I used to think suffering

comes from God

to sculpt away the pieces

that aren't part of the design.

But I keep seeing pieces falling

with scraps of the pattern 

still pinned to the material.

So I read James again. 

He didn't say

God sent suffering for good. 

He said every suffering

could bring about good.

I used to think God

does only ever all

that will bring the greatest good.

But I've seen good seeds

become dry shoots in the wilderness—

burning bushes that are consumed. 

Every day, chances to bring about good

soar over the plate

strike after strike.

And I guess,

I don't really know what you do, God?

Like, what do you do?

Mary didn't even get the guest room. 

This is the part

where I'm supposed to say

"Yet I will hope in the God of my salvation."

I want to.

Tonight, all I've got is

"What are you waiting for?"

I'm grateful that you notice when the sparrow falls

but the sparrow's still broken, right?

You noticed Adam and Eve,

but their children are still broken.

I used to think the parable 

about the rock, 

and whether it's better to fall on it

or have it fall on you

was a Scared Straight story:

fall on Jesus, even though it breaks you

so you avoid getting crushed by the judgment. 

But I saw you, Jesus. 

In total dependence you fell onto the Father

and then your own people—

the weight of their brokenness—

fell on you, and you were crushed

for our iniquity.

Our Shepherd, our Brother, our King,

You are both: the one who falls on God

and the one who is crushed.

"By His wounds we are healed,"

but we heal into your likeness.

We follow your steps:

we fall and break on God,

but we also get crushed

like the Man of Sorrows 

while we wait. 

Everyday life becomes a struggle to survive 

your ambivalence toward healing.

How long, oh Lord?

You know I wouldn't ask

if I didn't believe.