I know it doesn’t make much sense.
Someone reflected back to me last week that it is true–I have been holding onto the hem of Jesus’ cloak, following Him amicably, grumpily, begrudgingly for 18 years. The number doesn’t make sense. Over half of my life has been spent following a God I cannot see, believing in a Savior whose story is acknowledged by most people, believer or not. Eighteen years of life. It’s come to the point where the line between before and after has blurred, and I just don’t know that I really remember who I was without Him.
I know. It doesn’t make much sense.
It’s been eleven months since I’ve written a blog post, even more since I truly considered myself a “blogger”. The Internet and social media just keeps changing, and now I’m 75 minutes deep in Reels before I realize what has happened. It’s all a distraction, you know? It sucks me in like a good book but without any meat, without any nourishment for my soul. Instead I’m left wondering, “Why doesn’t my life look like that?”, and thus begins a down spiral of doubt. It shouldn’t leave you wondering why I don’t blog anymore, why I don’t share every photo I take of my kids, why I post less and less frequently. I would rather be sucked into the eyes of my four-, six-, eight-, or nine-year-old. I would rather laugh uncontrollably with my husband, who, daily, is the greatest joy of my life. There is too much rich joy to be had in life playing out before my eyes for me to share every second with you, whoever you are.
In these eleven months, I’ve been shattered and rebuilt. I still don’t want to talk about it, let alone write about it. It is true what the Word says about God pruning us, ridding us of that which does not produce fruit. It’s true. The removal and regrowth is just as painful as it sounds, and it changed everything for me. Everything. I found Jesus again and again, and finally, I let Him have me. To be restored from the pit, to be lifted from the miry clay, to be transformed more and more into His image is a painful gift that I didn’t want yet desperately needed.
Eighteen years is what it took.
Eighteen years, and I finally agreed that I couldn’t do it on my own. I couldn’t follow a God I couldn’t see in my own power. I couldn’t believe in Jesus without welcoming Him and all His people into my life. I couldn’t muster the strength to continue anymore without falling completely and totally at His mercy. So I did. Crumpled in a heap, a mess of pain, waiting to be gathered into His arms. So I was. It took a long time to find my way back to my feet again.
It doesn’t make much sense how God works. I write blog posts like these ones, interlaced with Scripture if you can catch it, and find ways to tell my story that are weaved with His heart in mine. It isn’t all beautiful and melodic like I can write it out to be. It is often filled with journals upon journals of anguish and lament, wondering why God would allow pain in my heart, why my brain cannot quite catch up with the truth. I crawled to Him daily before I could walk in any type of strength. Let me tell you–He will have you anyway you can get to Him. Whether you are cut off at the knees, crippled, unable to move. He will take you. He will gather you up. He will reach out to you if you can’t reach out to Him. He is kind like that. I know because He did it for me.
I asked God today to remind me. To tell me again how good He has been. Do you know how often I forget? Eighteen years have passed, and still I linger in my questioning instead of resting in His promise. I asked Him to show me again. To remind me of just yesterday when I was singing a song, and I saw Him hugging me like a daddy hugs his kid. To keep reminding me. How faithful You have always been! Even when I am not. Even when I am barely making it to You.
It doesn’t make sense, and I think that is a great gift.
The faithfulness of God does not need to make sense for it to be true. If it did, our faith would rely on what we can see, and that isn’t faith at all.
Eleven months. Eighteen years. Time passes, and He is faithful still. Thank You, Jesus.
JANELLE DELAGRANGE 