I miss the One who weeps

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I didn’t grow up in the church.

I walked into the church as a broken 20 year old.

Surrounded by “perfect” Christians I quickly felt out of place.

We tend to hide our imperfections. We say there’s room for grace, we speak it out loud, but don’t confess our own need for it.

We put sin on a scale. And I felt like the prostitute weeping at Jesus’ feet with no one around me saying “me too”.

There’s room for grace. You need it. But me, I’m good.

My step dad died unexpectedly 4 years later. I stood tall, and proclaimed “God is good. He gives and He takes away” as though he was the one who caused the blood to pool in his belly and destine him to the grave.

“God is Sovereign. He is glorified in all things. Even by sending your step dad to hell.”

I was offered platitudes. Confusing my belief in God. Was God still good? Would a good God cause this? I started losing my trust.

A year later my heart and my body rebelled. A beautiful facade. Still in ministry, but behind closed doors I was walking away.

The distance grew to the point where I threw myself on the floor and begged Jesus to take me back. Never again I told him, never again will I walk away.

Pregnant before marriage and a shot gun wedding, I reflected on that broken promise. A wanderer in the desert, once thought to be filled with the Holy Ghost brought to her demise again.

Thrown into motherhood. Empty.

I birthed my second born son at 20 weeks with no heartbeat. Mine was growing faint.

Birthing the third and the fourth too soon. My heart died.

It revived with the birth of our fifth. She was alive. God had answered the prayers I never prayed. He answered the silence.

Then the silence returned like a heavy blow when I birthed our sixth at 18 weeks with no heartbeat. Jeremiah. Our weeping prophet.

Weeping over all the heartache. Over all the wanderings. Over my broken soul.

I miss Jesus. I miss the real Jesus. Not the Jesus tied down by bad theology and perfect Christians. Not the Jesus who sends my step dad to hell and causes my babies to die. Not the one who causes bad things to happen just so he can bring good from it.

I miss the one who weeps with me. The one who’s heart aches over the injustices of the world. The one who gets angry when babies die. The one who picks me up time and time again when I wander and fall.

The one who calls me by name.

The one who never lets go.

The one who sits with me in the silence.

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