What Invites the Practice of Love: the joy of melody with meter

I once received a reprimand that shaped my view of love. A stern rebuke gave me sweet realization that love is a bias—a bias found beneath the surface of clear rationality. I find this true in the long haul, and in the new seeds of love too. My seeds of love found life on a Sunday. For at least a dozen weeks since I’d met Luiz, we’d hung around after church to talk. He’d even slipped me a note with his number on it one week. I spent a full two hours trying to decide how to write a one-line text message. When I heard he’d be in a speech competition, it caught my interest. As a regular attender of a Toastmasters club, he and another man would compete to give the most humorous speech. On the day of the competition, I stepped into the dim backroom of the Italian restaurant where their group met. I spotted Luiz and waved before taking a seat to watch the events unfold. The tables formed three sides of a square, with the fourth side open for the podium. Each chair faced the center. In the group of 25 or so, the room held more than strangers. I noticed Luiz’s sister and another woman from church. A man with a balding dome and a mustache gave his speech first. He spoke like the kind of uncle any kid would like to have and captured the room well. Then Luiz gave his speech about a childhood moment of self-consciousness. The joy in his face was what mesmerized me. He spoke with exuberance and I didn’t want to miss a second of how it shaped his bearing, or the way his eyes danced when he smiled. When it was over, in my delight to have witnessed the moment, it took me a minute to realize that the president of this Toastmasters club expected each person there to offer an evaluation one by one around the room. All of two more people would be offering their thoughts before it would be my turn. In my whole eighteen years, I’d never had to offer feedback on a speech before. I tried to catch fragments of what was said by the people who went before me but my thoughts raced too fast to catch much. I tried to mentally categorize what the elements of a speech might be, but everything I learned in speech class vanished from my brain. What could I say about Luiz’s presentation? How do you put language to the way a voice sounds? Something about pacing? His eyes. Oh dear. The moment arrived and I was asked which speech I liked best. The president’s pen hovered in the air ready to note my answer. “I liked Luiz’s speech best.” While my answer was different from those who answered before me, it was entirely truthful. I could at least lean on the truth. “And why did you like Luiz’s speech best?” he asked. “I liked Luiz’s speech because I like Luiz.” I tried to act as if the matter was settled and looked on to the next person. The man forced his pen flat on the podium and pursed his lips sternly before responding. “I will not allow for any bias in this Toastmasters club.” I followed my gut. “I’m so sorry but…I don’t think my bias can be helped.” This got an annoyed eye roll from the club president, but it also brought a smile from Luiz with eyes that crinkled in the corners. After dinner, he walked me to my car. Though he wasn’t named the winner, he said he felt like one. When I got his invite the next morning to go out for lunch, I didn’t take two hours to message him this time. Soon, we were seated at Jason’s Deli, table for two—I’m so glad objectivity didn’t win the competition. Today, I call him Nano and we have three kids. And a refusal to be starkly rational may leave us with uncertain moments, but it’s essential to the mix that makes up a life of love. The long-haul of love needs a determination to shed clinical approaches, especially when it’s tricky. Maybe there’s a type of bias that shows the magic the human soul was made to be. Maybe embracing it a few thousand times over is all that love might ask—to bear all things, believe all things, hope all things, endure all things (1 Cor. 13:7).

The moments that let us down often do a quiet work to make way for a time, far in the future, that takes our breath away. On a visit to my grandpa’s farm as a child, my cousins and brothers and I walked down the farm-to-market road with our eyes set on the water tower. It sits a mile or so down the road and we aimed to walk all the way there. The green fields stretched out on either side of the road, and we strode down the center of a wide open universe. The grand goal was to go and stare at the tower’s lofty stature against the open sky, take our pictures there, and come home to declare our feat. But we were young, our legs grew tired, and sunset loomed. We did take pictures with the yellow flood gauge along the road, but we didn’t make our goal. The next day, my aunt drove my cousins to the water tower for pictures. This idea didn’t feel as grand to me though. I can’t remember if we ever tried again, but the water tower trek stuck in my memory. In later years, I would sometimes peer in that direction and remember how proudly we walked toward it that day. On some visits we pulled our aunt’s and uncle’s old bicycles out of the chicken house and tried to ride them down the road. But the rusty frames and aged tires never carried us far. I can’t remember if we hoped to ride them to the water tower. I just know we rode in that direction. Nano and I have lived at Grandpa’s old farm for ten years now. Toward the tail end of the school year, our son—our youngest child—learned to confidently ride his bike without training wheels, and the family usage of our bicycles has ramped up. A couple weeks back on a Sunday evening, our kids begged for a family bike ride and Nano and I readily agreed. The air grew crisp with the dipping sun, and clouds squiggled across the sky, ready to play. I imagined we would ride to the half-mile point, then head back as we’ve done before. But when we came to that half-mile point where another road crosses ours, the family kept riding. At the sight of the water tower, my first memory of it came flooding back. I remembered my young excitement to travel all the way there. I remembered the old rusty bikes. Suddenly I felt as if an old forgotten dream might be coming true in its own way. Soft glowing lines shone from the clouds and the smiles on my family glowed too. With proud delight we stopped when we came to the sight. The decision wasn’t spoken, just arrived at. All five of us stood beside our bikes staring up at the towering form. Nano snapped our picture and the moment felt perfectly right. In the ten years we’ve lived here I’d never walked or rode my bike to the tower before. I’d nearly forgotten that childhood hope to approach it on the road under the open sky. Somehow, I’d never imagined doing it with my husband and children. Yet it just happened, and it felt glorious. When we rode away with my daughter beside me, I kept watching the tower make its statement in the golden gleam of evening. Here in this moment, I didn’t want to forget my girl’s brown hair, the painted sky and the whizzing of our wheels spinning. The evening spoke plainly. Even though disappointments had filled my mind that morning, that very same day brought the sweetest fulfillment to an old childhood hope. The disappointments of yesterday made today that much sweeter. Today’s letdowns may soon be distant memories. Then, one day when you don’t expect them, they may rise up again to meet you—with a kind bliss you’d never know if the disappointment had never been yours. Maybe under the sky of a Father who gives good gifts, the sky of a God who set eternity into our hearts, maybe every disappointment is intended as a foreshadow of the joy He longs to share with us somewhere down the road.

Small Shifts That Bring Light

The people who drew near to Jesus were the despised, the sinners, the children. Maybe those who have little to lose in the way of reputation have the clearest view. “Now the tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to hear him. And the Pharisees and the scribes grumbled, saying, ‘This man receives sinners and eats with them.’ “So he told them this parable: ‘What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the open country, and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it? And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders, rejoicing’” (Luke 15:1-5). In this same scene in Luke 15, Jesus also shared the story of the prodigal son and the father who loved him with reckless generosity. Before an audience who continually looked down on the sinner, Jesus proclaimed the unquestionable value of the runaway in our heavenly Father’s eyes. Dane Ortlund writes, “Though the crowds call [Jesus] the friend of sinners as an indictment, the label is one of unspeakable comfort for those who know themselves to be sinners. That Jesus is friend to sinners is only contemptible to those who feel themselves not to be in that category” ( Gentle and Lowly , p. 114). The most lowly of society saw Jesus as more than approachable. Children bounded up to him. The outcasts came close. The nature of Jesus’ presence gave them confidence to lean in. Here is someone who sees me and doesn’t look away. Here is someone who speaks of God as if God wants…me…not loyalty to a system I could never pretend to conform to. When they saw God through Jesus, they didn’t feel daunted. When He said, “Come to me, all who are weary” (Matt. 11:28), they recognized the God in whose image they’d always been made. The Good Shepherd freed them to shed heavy-laden expectations and enter worship with rest, right there at His table. How did children know they didn’t have to keep a respectable distance? How did the sinners learn they were free to join the feast where Jesus dined? They experienced His presence. After years spent hearing of a God who doesn’t come too close, worn and weary people experienced something new. Any fear they’d felt of a distant, condescending God, met a Person who reshaped that narrative. How many of us have ever felt afraid that God saw us as disappointments? Too dirty for Him to touch. Too fickle for Him to sit with. When have we been apprehensive to listen to the steady Voice who waits for us to hear with our hearts? “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matt. 11:29). Jesus’ presence keeps speaking. The Word cannot be silenced. Sometimes a small glimmer of Him shines through the fractured vessels of people. Always, He’s close to all who seek His presence. Learn from me, He says. We’re free to pull up a chair, to bound into His heart with our careworn self. Here every fear is shared without shame, and every nervous soul is met with the perfect relief of a Shepherd who delights to feast with His own. Some may say to ignore fear. Trudge on. Bear the heavy load. But when we can be guests at a table of grace where fear can be remade, what more could a heart want than to come in earnest to the Shepherd’s gentle love? “Take my yoke upon you…for my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matt. 11:29-30).

When goodness is in reach, I don’t always recognize it. This is true for mothers, and for little boys too. A few nights before Easter, I pulled into the Family Dollar after dark and found the plastic eggs and candy for my son. So many of the Easter baskets came in pinks and yellows with flowers and bows, but I did find a green plastic bucket with a cute dinosaur face—bright, round eyes, pointy ears and a jolly smile. I wondered if it was too “young” for my eight year old, but hoped for the best. When I arrived home to show my findings to Gideon, he gasped in delight and dutifully took his place at the table to fill twelve eggs with candy for the class egg hunt at school. Success! Or so I thought. The next morning my daughters woke earlier than normal, determined to make pancakes before school. Comforting wafts of buttery goodness drew the whole family to the kitchen. Gideon called for me with outstretched arms and showed me where he had written his name on his bucket. The morning felt unusually cheery for its early hour and the whole tone of the house felt magical. But soon, a shift came in the eyes of my boy. Plates began to go onto the table. Next to the green bucket. Gideon stared. Nano noticed something amiss and caught my eye. With little shoulders slumped, our boy wandered off to the bedroom. His daddy saw his welling eyes and urged me to follow. Sitting next to Gideon on the bed, I said he must be sad about something and wondered aloud what it was. “The bucket,” he said. “I don’t want to take the bucket to school.” This made sense to me. The time for school drew closer and he must’ve decided the bucket was too young for him after all. “You don’t have to take that bucket,” I told him. “I’ll bet we can find something else…okay?” He nodded. “And Mommy?” “Yes.” “Can you give that bucket back to the store?” I urged him not to worry about that, but he pressed me further. He wanted the bucket gone. In the kitchen, my daughter told me where she had seen Gideon’s Spider-Man bucket from Halloween and we decided that might work. With some help from Nano, we found the bucket in the old smokehouse before Gideon joined the girls for breakfast. While I cut my boy's pancakes, he confirmed that Spider-Man buckets are better than dinosaur buckets. Later when the kids were at school, I debated whether to keep or toss the one-dollar bucket, before I wrapped it in a grocery bag and dropped it in the trash bin. At the school pick-up that afternoon, Gideon announced a change. “Mommy, I do want my dinosaur bucket.” He planned to use it for another egg hunt over the weekend. The second he stepped out of the car at home, he asked me where to look. I assured Gideon I would get his bucket and sent him inside before doing a quick dumpster dive in the front yard. The windows revealed my secret though, and he stood laughing at me when I walked in the door. Then the bucket, though shunned that morning, became a joy to him again. When I asked him what changed his mind, he just said he realized he could still use it. He saw a purpose for it. I can relate to him. I often take time to accept a situation. I want to know there’s good purpose for the stretching seasons I go through. When I struggle to see the purpose, I wrestle with accepting the season. Sometimes the best gifts begin to arrive in ways that look more like loss than gift. Then, when dashed hopes are being redeemed into something new, my heart is slow to recognize that beauty. What helps a worn-down heart to see a path as worth accepting? God answers prayers, even through pain. I can stare an answered prayer in the face and not see the faithful hand of my Father. I can hear the beauty of the resurrection and not tune in to the softest ripple of its melody amidst the days I live. On the road to Emmaus, Cleopas and his friend had heard news of the empty tomb, yet their hearts locked in on memories of disappointed hopes. When the resurrected Jesus began to walk with them on their journey, they knew him only as a fellow traveler—one who was quite uninformed. When Jesus asked them what they were talking about, “they stood still, looking sad” (Luke 24:17). They shared with their new companion about Jesus, the mighty prophet. They lamented how they had hoped he would be the one to redeem Israel, until he was killed. The women who claimed that Jesus was now alive seemed to concern them. The empty tomb stirred their worry. Jesus gently rebuked their slowness of heart—reluctant to believe what they’d already heard. He recalled the prophecies they knew, yet they heard it differently this time. His unfolding of the Scriptures enlightened their understanding. That evening they begged him to have dinner with them. In the moment he broke bread, they knew him as Jesus. Immediately, he vanished, and they said, “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?” (Luke 24:32) Jesus stayed in bodily form beside them until their hearts could see that the death he died, and even their disappointed hopes, were all for good. Their Master walked with them to help them see God’s good purpose and a fire kindled inside them. His presence ignited their acceptance of the story. The breaking of bread, the moment that brought memories, the burning in their hearts, all helped them see the goodness right there. Adam McHugh says, “When the two disciples who walked to Emmaus reflected on their night with that oddly familiar stranger, they marveled that their hearts burned within their chests as he spoke. A central part of the Christian spiritual life…comes in paying attention to the moments when our hearts are burning. In those times, we may just find that we are not alone” ( The Listening Life , p. 184). For the seasons of life we don’t want to accept, maybe we’re not alone. When I hear that the ugliest losses bear the most precious purpose to my Father, something burns in my heart and I don’t want to brush past this. The memories of disappointed hopes cannot truly outweigh the memories of the One who always knows how to rekindle my joy. For all it contains, this season of my life will bear good purpose. I do want this bucket.

There is something about the tiny ways we experience a dream coming true that changes our outlook. Whether it’s an idea brought to fruition, a task finished, a plan fulfilled, these moments train us to believe more is possible. There are seasons when my soul needs to witness these tiny wants coming true while I guard my heart, find new energy and pray for grace to refuel my hope. In those times, if I try to rush myself, push ahead, I don’t leave room for the autumn and winter seasons of my soul. Just as all of life needs times of letting go, and the silence of snow, so there are places in my soul that need what is steady, what is slow. When old seasons of life have died, it’s time to hunt for beauty in the little shoots of life. Here are a few ways this looks for me right now. While these practices are small, they are exercises that help me look forward. Right now, I’m wanting to meet new people at church, and needing to keep it simple. This week I met Sally and Renae. I had brief conversations with each of them. I wrote down their names to help myself remember. For years, I’ve been wanting to read historical fiction again. I finally started. A few days ago, I finished a book set in the early nineteen hundreds. Then, I began another, set a few centuries earlier. I’ve wanted to adjust my morning routine in a way that gets me moving and helps me feel grounded. For the last month I’ve rolled out my yoga mat most weekday mornings and used it for ten minutes. As short a time as it is, it helps me feel alive knowing I’m keeping a promise to myself. When I see my small hopes play out as I come to the last page of a book, tell my husband about new people, and spend regular mornings on the yoga mat, the small things stack up. Something inside me begins to notice that I have choices in life. I wished for a reality and it came to happen. These small practices help me embrace life-giving rhythms, even while honoring the season I’m in and the pace of my soul. It’s freeing to acknowledge where I am. When I admit that I’m not in a season of summer plenty, and admit my capacity for life has limits, this helps me live more fully in the gift of today. While life is communal, we experience it individually too. Parker Palmer writes, “We must come together in ways that respect the solitude of the soul…” The solitude of the soul is our garden to tend. It’s different from our neighbors’. Every garden needs water and light to grow, and sufficient protection to help it thrive. Yet, each garden must be tended according to its specific needs, with consideration for the season it’s in. When our gardens are tended according to their needs, there are times of harvest that bring nourishment to others. The solitary tending brings communal blessing. Each season always had purpose. The Lord who knows the necessities of every garden doesn’t rush us forward. He knows the slow work of growth and invites us to stay in pace with Him as He makes the way for tomorrow. When the season calls us to hunt for small shoots, and care for tiny dreams, He honors the solitude within us. The secret place within is always where He waits. A promise: “He who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will supply and multiply your seed for sowing and increase the harvest of your righteousness” (2 Cor. 9:10).

At times, words about goodness have felt vanilla to me, like preschool basics. God is good. The sky is blue. I’ve longed for a goodness that means more than empty positivity. More than rote fact. More than a decade ago, when I was newly married and just entering my twenties, Nano and I sat with a group of church friends who were planning a Thanksgiving gathering. One woman suggested inviting the guests to share four things they were thankful for. Everyone seemed to like her idea. Internally, I sighed. I didn’t understand this and thought we may as well recite our grocery lists to each other. I wondered what might fit what they were looking for, while also feeling more meaningful. I shared the first thought that came to mind. “What if we share one thing we’re thankful for and then four reasons why we’re thankful for that?” They blinked at me and offered polite words acknowledging my idea. The day of the gathering came and I listened as people shared their four-point lists of things they were thankful for. I can’t remember if I recited a list myself. I just remember looking around the room at this group—most of whom had seen many more years of life than I had. I couldn’t understand why this didn’t feel so mundane to everyone else. Thirteen years later, the memory stays with me. I put myself back in that room at the age I am now, and I’ve still seen less years than most of them. Maybe though, I’m a little closer to understanding what they knew. When dreams you’ve hoped for blow away in the wind, when paths you walk turn to somber roads, when the sky around you grows dark, the clouds teach you what you never could’ve learned in the light. Along the journey of life’s disappointments, the soul learns how to see that no matter what blows away, no matter how grave the story, there is always a bird who still sings. The rote facts you learned in preschool become lifelines that save you. God is good. The sky is blue. When a voice inside asks me what I have left, there is still the voice of a child in my distant memory. She sings her alphabet, letter by letter, and somehow every syllable of ordinary life becomes the sweetest song I’ve ever heard. Built into the fabric of this life, into the sound of every letter we work with each day, is a Voice that echoes quietly beneath every harsh blow. God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. He looked with delight and said, “You are very good.” From the beginning, goodness was there. Today, His goodness remains. Last week, my family munched popcorn and watched Tom Hanks in Castaway. After he loses everything, then years later loses everything again, he tells a friend what he knows. “I know what I have to do now. I’ve got to keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide will bring?” The sun still rises, and the goodness God made in the beginning is still alive. I remembered myself at age twenty. I sat in a room where I couldn’t hear more than a grocery list. I wanted to hear the reasons why . Little did I know that when we recognize what is good, we are naming the reasons why —the reasons why we breathe. These are the signs there is goodness. This is the meaning that keeps us open to meet another day.

The heart’s ability to stretch across the widest chasms can feel conflicting—though it’s also connecting. A heart can care deeply for two very different people, can be attached to two places so very far apart, and can find ways to extend itself beyond what it ever thought it could. In one sense this can seem contradictory, but this is what we’re made for. Love doesn't go in one single direction, but forms a connection of paths and bridges that reach far and wide. A couple weeks ago, I stopped by the dollar store after church. However, I didn’t realize until I got back to my car that I had locked my keys inside. After confirming Nano wasn’t too far away with the extra key, I set my groceries on the hood of the car, and found a seat in the lawn chair beside the store's front entrance. Customers passed in and out. Flower pots, garden flags and bags of charcoal surrounded me. Then I noticed a grey scooter near my chair that seemed a little worn, not for sale. After a few minutes, a lady stepped out of the building and began the task of securing her cartful of groceries to the scooter. She was quite friendly. I explained my situation to her, and she shared with me that she lived close to the store and enjoyed the scooter rides and the fresh air. I noticed her accent and learned she was from South Africa. “That’s where my heart is,” she said. South Africa is where she wanted to be. She’d been in Texas for three years. “I met my husband online. He was from here, but agreed to come live with me in South Africa. It worked out for ten years,” she said, “but the whole time he really missed his home.” She spoke of the strain of living a joint life with hearts in two different places. Yet, she spoke of it with a tender sense of joy—an openness to see what lay ahead, and hopeful that one day she would be home again. The conversation stuck in my mind. Her heart is in South Africa. Her heart is with her husband. His heart is in Texas. The math of how a heart works doesn’t add up. I think of the tensions my own heart carries, the quiet ways to be *with* someone when my feet can’t find the way across the same bridge. Does it ever add up? I don’t think so. Somehow though, the unsolved equations in my heart are the places God speaks to me most—when I give up trying to solve them. Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved. Some mysteries come into our lives to tug on our hearts—maybe even to tear us, and somehow…to heal us. To the mysteries we can’t make sense of, to the math that never works, to the unsolved puzzles in an unfinished life, we welcome you. We’ll let you be. This past weekend, I stretched out on the living room floor, chin in my hands, dice rolling, my children cheering. The puzzle in my heart can stay unfinished for now, if it means I can embrace the wonder of the gifts right here before me.

Sometimes when we come to connect with God in prayer, questions are the only words we can find. The Bible is full of heavy questions God’s children have asked Him in prayer. We may feel shame rise over the queries we have for God. Sometimes I’ve wondered if God is disappointed in me for wondering where He is. At times, I am tempted to pull away from God when I think of my doubts and fears. However, God’s Word encourages His people to do something astounding—and beautiful. “Trust in [God] at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us.” Psalm 62:8. When I read this verse, I notice something that makes me feel so light and free. Psalm 62 does not say: Trust in God at all times, O people; quit asking Him questions! Rather than shutting down our inquiries, God encourages His children to pour out our hearts. Scripture takes this act of sharing our raw selves in prayer, and actually connects it with living out our trust in God. It refreshes me to see this in my Bible. Psalm 13 is one prayer that begins with raw questions. “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I take counsel in my soul and have sorrow in my heart all the day? How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?” Psalm 13:1-2 God never desires that we would withdraw from him because of the mess we feel inside. If distressing questions are the first words to come when we seek God’s presence, we are still loved by a God who longs to hear our hearts. There are times when trusting God with our messy uncertainties is the best way we can move toward Him. Psalm 13 begins with questions and carries forward still. For two more verses the psalmist petitions God to look upon his troubles, to consider his situation and respond. Then the psalmist remembers the guiding arrow of his internal faith compass that has served him well before—an arrow he knows can be trusted. “But I have trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, because he has dealt bountifully with me.” Psalm 13:5-6 A heart that pours itself out to God is not despised by Him. To come to God with our questions is often an act of trust. Our doubts are messy, but they are a doorway—and curiously, the doorway can lead toward God. Although, doubt can also lead away from Him. Some time after God split the Red Sea and delivered the Israelites out of bondage in Egypt, they grumbled about God. Their questions sounded like this: “Why is the Lord bringing us into this land, to fall by the sword? Our wives and our little ones will become a prey. Would it not be better for us to go back to Egypt?” Numbers 14:3 Moses, Aaron, Joshua and Caleb immediately reminded the people of God’s goodness. The people responded by picking up stones to kill them. God felt their actions deeply, asking, “How long will this people despise me? And how long will they not believe in me, in spite of all the signs that I have done among them?” Numbers 14:11 God asks questions too. When doubt rises, He longs for us to run toward Him. He waits for us to remember who He is and who He always has been. Mystery sometimes surrounds heavy questions in the Bible. I just know that if our queries can serve as a doorway to move us toward God and His faithfulness, it is good to ask God our questions. Here are a few more questions the psalmists ask of God in prayer: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning?” Psalm 22:1 “God why do you cast us off forever? Why does your anger smoke against the sheep of your pasture?” Psalm 74:1 “How long, O God, is the foe to scoff? Is the enemy to revile your name forever? Why do you hold back your hand, your right hand?” Psalm 74:10-11 “Will the Lord spurn forever, and never again be favorable? Has his steadfast love forever ceased? Are his promises at an end for all time? Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has he in anger shut up his compassion?” Psalm 77:7-9 “How long O Lord? Will you be angry forever? Will your jealousy burn like fire?” Psalm 79:5 “How long O Lord? Will you hide yourself forever? How long will your wrath burn like fire?” Psalm 89:46 “Lord, where is your steadfast love of old, which by your faithfulness you swore to David?” Psalm 89:49 There is one question in the New Testament that, to me, companions all of our human questions with the greatest love. It’s the question asked by Jesus from the cross. “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Matthew 27:46 Jesus intimately knows about our questions. He knows, too, about all of our pain and our trials. “For because he himself has suffered when tempted, he is able to help those who are being tempted.” Hebrews 2:18 In light of the cross, the questions and doubts we experience along the journey of faith are among the deepest of gifts we can know. Who knows what good gifts these uncertainties may invite us too? It’s quite possible that our soul-deep questions seek to point us toward the faithfulness of God’s guiding hand like nothing else can.