come.

Lord, where are You?

Why are You silent?

and so I sit here on my bed, tears running down my face, pen slipping out of my fingers because my thoughts are running too fast for ink to flow, too many emotions and feelings to be captured by mere words. I can’t shape these feelings into graceful words, elegant pleadings with Christ, psalms like David’s that rage at God in words beautiful and poetic.

My anger is much less refined.

Instead He gets tears, ugly tears, face-turning-red-ragged-breath tears, because that is all that is left within me. I cannot always cry out to God with words, because words are complicated and messy and I don’t always know how to use them, what to say and what to ask for.

and so I sit on my bed. Pen next to my journal, staring at the blank page, crying to the sounds of Jon Foreman and hoping God can translate. That He’ll know my tears and my silence mean Father, draw near and God, why don’t I feel You working in my life? and Lord, help. That’s He’ll understand and know my anger, frustration, loneliness. That He’ll see the desperate need in my soul and He’ll come and fill it, because I know that He will, because that’s what He does, but right now He feels so far away and I feel so lost.

and so I sit and I take my pen in hand, form my thoughts into clumsy sentences, spilling emotions and teardrops onto the page, because that’s the only way I know to keep going and keep hoping and keep waiting on God.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

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