Galatians 6:17

For Jenna and Annie.

Holy Father, you let me get hurt.

In the distress and anger of a child, I want to call you: "Dad."
Dad, you let me get hurt.
But I know I "shouldn't..."
It's too casual, too much like a jerky teenager.

But, you of all people can handle me doing what I "shouldn't."
So...
Dad!  You let me get hurt.

My carefully crafted study-of-God has shattered.
I cry out, neck deep in rubble:
You let me get hurt!?

You make beautiful things out of the dust.

I used to sing that and believe it.
But it sounds empty
Neck-deep in theology rubble.

"Even though he slay me, still I will praise him!"
Yeah right, Job.
Maybe now, in the pious drama of fresh rubble -
But what about when the rubble ages?
And your wife begs you to die?
And your friends investigate your heart for the causal sin?
And God won't show up for the court case you've planned?
The one you think you need to survive.
What then, Job?
Praise?

No - jerky teenager:
Dad!  You let me get hurt.

Grieving child:
Daddy, do you see me?
I'm hurt.

Calloused and cynical adult:
God, thought you should know, I've given up on you... decided you're not trustworthy.

You make beautiful things out of us.

I used to sing that and hope.
Like real hope:
Substantive.
The kind you can put in your mouth and taste and smell.
Bread and wine.
Body and blood.

That's right...
I remember now:
Body and blood.
Sinew and puss.
Wound and guttural cry.
Death.
Alone.

It's not good to be alone.
"Adam, where are you?"
"Cain, where is your brother?"

You ask a lot of questions.
I state a lot of statements.

"Job, were you there when I...?"

Dad! You let me get hurt.
"Eloi, eloi, lema sabacthane!"

You answer my uninquisitive statement with the Aramaic question.
The one that changes everything.

"My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?"

Dare I answer?
An angry and grieving child.
A jerky teenager.
A calloused and cynical adult.
Yeah, I dare:

Because
You make beautiful things out of the dust.
You make beautiful things out of us.

Believe and hope.

Someone had to be alone.
It isn't good to be alone.

It wasn't me.
It wasn't me.
It wasn't me.

Holy Father, you let me get hurt.
But not alone.

"I bear in my body the marks of Jesus."


*Inspired by true healing, Job, Paul (Gal. 6:17), the Covenant Presbyterian Women's Retreat, Jenna, Annie, and the song Beautiful Things by Gungor.*