This little golden girl of mine, all sun-streaked hair and the faded glow of sun-kissed skin, now descends into torment. Wails split the air, fists fly, limbs fail in all directions as she wrestles with her own personal demons. Why does one so small have to struggle with something so big?
I feel so powerless standing there. How do I help this little one? I try to speak truth, try to pray, try to hold, to love in the face of this storm. But it rages on, undaunted by my efforts. She screams that she is the worst person ever, that she hates herself. My heart splinters, shreds, disintegrates.
For this is a storm I know all too well. I wrestled with these demons for far too long and am only now finding healing and victory. This isn't what I want for her. This isn't my dream for freedom and hope. Understanding helps, it mutes my frustration only to funnel it back at myself. I hurt for her hurt, for my hurt, for this broken world that writes pain in our DNA. I didn't ask to be broken. Neither did she. Nor did so many others left broken, bruised, wounded, rejected by events that happened even before their births. It's not right. It's not fair.
The storm ends. She comes, with tear-stained face, asking why can't she be good? Wondering why this obedience is so hard, imagining that this experience is unique to her. Another man, almost two thousand years ago, said the same thing wrestling with his brokenness and the grace of Christ. So I told the story of a man named Saul, of his journey from darkness to light and the grace in between. Words about how it's our faith that brings rightness with God, not our works, how desperately we need grace. Stories about how once I wrestled with sin, how I still wrestle with sin and how God makes it right. She asked how long? How long does this take? It's been so long(a year) and still she struggles. She didn't like my answer, that we have to wait until glory, but the storm was done. Peace had come, finally, for now.
I weep for my girl and for myself. I weep for all who suffer from the torments of sin, striving to be better, but caught. And I am so thankful for that man who was redeemed, caught in a blinding light, then released again to see. He wrote letters of truth, so that we who have come since can find hope and healing in the news of God's great grace rather than getting stuck in the sinking sand of legalism and works.
May all of our brokenness be redeemed and may we walk in freedom.
Today I'm joining with Emily as we celebrate God's grace.