Beginning to Count Joy

I am so...done.

Which is always the case, but sometimes more apparent than others. Absolute powerlessness. Floundering about in a sea of chaos, on a daily basis. Seeing so much pain. So much grief. So much injustice. So much brokenness. So much torment and abuse and hopelessness and despair and incapacitation. And powerless to do anything.

I used to think I could do things to help. I made it a subversive sort of goal to impact the lives of others in a positive direction, willfully. Thinking that was good. Thinking I knew what was necessary for healing and wellness and hope and progress. For love and joy to prosper.

That was the draw of psychology. Initially wandered across when, being forced to attend counseling, it became quickly apparent that there was no help. Figured something along the lines of, "if people think there are answers here, but the people I'm encountering aren't helping, maybe going to the source and learning it myself is what's necessary." To piece together the pieces of my broken life and heart and mind, using psychological principles as a guidebook for progress and as a self-help guide to the process.

Dabbling, though, same as with everything. Especially since it's been so utterly impossible to maintain focus for any extended time given the onslaught of one trauma right after another. Since childhood. But doesn't everyone experience that same thing?

Doing well in school wasn't an option, though, on that front. I couldn't manage to recall most of the information once sifted through, in the least--hearing history rehashed is like never having heard it at all before, every time. Same with so many things. And then, sometimes some things are utterly clear. Rarely, but still.

I didn't turn to God for help, though. I didn't ask Jesus for deliverance or daily sustenance.
I was convinced there was some way to fix things, on my own.

Given enough effort. And an indomitable will to persist, no matter the cost. Even when the backlash of that ended in recurrent hospitalizations.

God let me try, though. He let me burn myself out again and again, trying to do it my way and in my own strength and by all the many means I could find. And every time I'd find anything which seemed remotely successful, I'd try to share it with others, so to "help."

Attempting to rehabilitate myself and others subsequent. Which, now knowing God, is recognized as utterly defiant and deviant and proud and destructive. Good intentions, as the world considers things good. But bad effects--driving people to further self-reliance, which is further defiance against God.

And I called that loving.

Same as calling it love to strive for making way for communication, no matter the compromise entailed. I considered it far more desirable to be on so-called "good terms" with people and help them be on "good terms" with one another than to be loyal or take a stand for anything remotely resembling truth. I considered being "at peace" with others to be the highest good, and being "at peace" with oneself the fount of that.

But all in a way which required constant compromise. It's not possible to maintain rigid opinions and be outspoken with them and still be "at peace" with everyone. Especially if some of them come down to believing a thing is either abjectly "right" or "wrong." (...all of which is in quotation marks because the truth of matters in the past was that previous definition was not at all based on truth but on a relativistic worldview which was utterly and wholly opposed to truth, at core.)

Suffering never stopped, though there were periods of respite. And a lot of recklessness. And willfulness, all.

But the chaos was continual. And God was merciful enough to let it utterly destroy me and all my efforts. And my perception of being capable of doing anything effectually and good, in my own strength and per my own determinations apart from His guidance and direction and insight.

Everything else only wrought temporary solace, at best. Not lasting. And even though, still now--in the midst of all the madness and constant pressure and torment and pains and trials--there are some bits of solace which are but temporary and fleeting, yet they provide a deeper refreshment per having come of and from Him. Like an oasis in the desert. Rather than as vinegar offered to drink.

A momentary port-of-call, but truly restorative and encouraging. Until the final destination is attained.

And it's a very real possibility, as contemplated the past couple days, that this will be the way of things. Period. Constant onslaughts with only brief periods of refreshment. Lifelong. And grief growing greater at every turn, as deeper wounds are revealed and even endured. But He does wound to heal. And His grace is sufficient.

So there's nothing except to remember my absolute powerlessness, in the midst. But surrendered to His omnipotence and wisdom. Even if things don't make sense. And even when the pain increases daily, as He unveils further truth and as the ravages of sin play out in all the world and even in my own members still being brought to sanctification...

...then, still, He is greater. He is. And He knows what's going on, from end to beginning. And allows what will ultimately be to good, no matter how painful now. Even as with His own torture and death.

He said the servant wouldn't be greater than the Master. And the disciple would not outdo the Teacher. So why should I expect to endure lesser torments?

His own family thought Him utterly insane, mocking Him to His face even to tell Him to go and do His miracles for everyone if He was so set on being something grand. The religious leaders of His own precious people denounced Him as being in league with evil because of His good deeds, and they called Him wretched of all men for daring to acknowledge and entreat sinners. Why should I expect there wouldn't be suspicion, derision, rejection, and mockery?

And if He could do nothing except that the Father gave it, and said nothing except that the Father directed--saying nothing was of Himself, but only as He was shown? Then how could I ever dare believe I might be capable of achieving good per my own sorely limited understanding of others' needs? And how dare I think it would be better of me to attempt self-reliance rather than to ache and long for similar dependency?

So, again. I'm done. I still want desperately to bring healing. I still long desperately to somehow let love shine a light into the darkness of so many aching hearts. And even of practical matters, yearn to help.

But except the Lord gives grace to impart good, what good is there?
I'm going to continue to prayerfully seek His leading in matters. And it all promises to be exquisitely excruciating, still. But whatever. He gave succour sufficient to have a lighter load in the midst, today. And I trust Him to persist.

The thing about learning patience and trust and faith, though, that I least like...is that endurance is also being tested. We're promised we won't be tempted being our ability to bear, but as we increase in faith, we increase in perseverance. So, from what I've experienced, each becomes more trying than the last. Each fire hotter or perhaps just borne for longer. Perhaps as necessary also to separate the deeper, more ingrained impurities, then, all the while.

Either way. I don't like it when He's silent. But His Word ever remains. Such a blessing.
I'm not sure I'd ever been as grateful for Scripture before, as yesterday. And if that's a result of enduring--to find such solace and to rejoice more deeply in finding peace through His Word to us?--then I'm glad of that, at the very least.

It's too much a habit to take things which are the most dear for granted. Much easier to cherish them when there's realization of how precious.