The weight of evidence

I accuse you of not loving enough to intervene – you who sang the world into being, the breath of life, the one who redeems everything as it falls apart.

You say to ask and it will be given, but disappointment has so often taken the place of hope as I wait and wait. Am I asking for the wrong things? Do I have no understanding of your will? Am I not important enough to you to get a yes?

If I quiet the questions, I hear you closer than my thoughts, and yet the elephant shuffles in the corner. When I look at you, my heart is filled with peace, but when glance at him, I cry for the pain you did not prevent. It’s a strange kind of trust that asks us to accommodate this giant beast of doubt and disappointment.

You are love, and yet what kind of love allows dreams to die, lets illness devour a friend, stands by while we are crushed? It would be easier if you never intervened, never promised anything, but there is this taunting rumour of yeses, sprinkled out apparently at random.

Perhaps faith is trusting that you are good in the presence of the elephant. Maybe it’s an almost foolish fixing of our eyes on you. Perhaps it is continuing to ask when hope has gone stale, knowing that waiting cultivates treasures that instant fixes could not. Perhaps it’s trusting that beauty grows from ashes, that devastating things are being woven into good, that you understand the pain of not knowing why.

Maybe in the end, the elephant will evaporate as our blindness is undone and our tears are dried away.

But oh God, please, please, please.

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