I am realizing that trust is a fragile thing. Even trust in someone as reliable and loving as God.
I believe God has never failed me. You'd think that would be enough to clinch my undying and unending trust in every circumstance I face. That trust by now would just come automatically. But it doesn't.
Some years ago, I went through a very dark, difficult time. I cried out to God to just be with me in that time of suffering and loneliness. I wasn't asking for a solution to my situation, or an end to the pain. I just needed him to sustain me in the midst of that experience. For some reason I still cannot fully understand, he seemed to leave me alone. For the first time in my life, when I needed him the most, I couldn't sense his presence or his comfort or his peace. I felt left to my own strength and resource, which of course were weak and used up.
That experience of seeming abandonment shattered a trust in God that all my life to that point had been unshakeable and reflexive. It's taken years of hard work between the two of us to build back that trust, but I admit, it's still a bit shaky.
Just yesterday, Andrew and I took a quick overnight trip to Zermatt, a village at the foot of the world famous and iconic Matterhorn, a sharp, toothy peak in southern Switzerland. Throughout the entire drive down late on Wednesday night and subsequent hiking day on Thursday, we saw bold evidence of God's hand on us, his provision for exactly what we needed when we needed it. Everything was working out perfectly when it might have gone badly (we could have hit hours-long traffic jams, missed the 11 p.m. train from Täsch into Zermatt, been locked out of our hotel. Thankfully, we avoided these possibilities). As we hiked, we were literally "on the mountaintop" and reveled in God's stunning and awe-inspiring creation. The weather gave us a few hours' window of perfection to get spectacular pictures and enjoy the scenery before it clouded over and we could no longer see the peak. I felt close to God, I experienced his faithfulness and my trust was increased.
Then we drove down from the mountain and back home into the flatlands of northern Switzerland. We left the "mountaintop."
Less than 24 hours later, I'm face-to-face with a brick wall of seeming impossible circumstances that are riddled with uncertainty, enormous obstacles and fear-inducing possibilities. My trust is in danger of faltering. Today, here "in the valley" I am reminded that trust isn't a feeling or a state of being. It's a choice. A hard choice that takes effort, strength and determination.
I don't know why we turn mountains and valleys into spiritual metaphors. We often say we're "on the mountaintop" when we're in a moment of spiritual excitement, wonder, deep trust and comfort or peace. When we're "in the valley" we're experiencing a lack of spiritual resources, or perhaps suffering and trials, difficult obstacles, disappointment, grief, fear or depression.
Well, that metaphor couldn't be more tangible to me than today. Yet, with the view of the Matterhorn fresh in my memory, and my clear memory of how he gave us everything we needed when we needed it, I am making the difficult choice of trusting God to work everything out to his good and perfect plan, for my good (not for my comfort necessarily but for my good) and believe that he is in control when we are so obviously not able to be.
I believe God has never failed me. You'd think that would be enough to clinch my undying and unending trust in every circumstance I face. That trust by now would just come automatically. But it doesn't.
Some years ago, I went through a very dark, difficult time. I cried out to God to just be with me in that time of suffering and loneliness. I wasn't asking for a solution to my situation, or an end to the pain. I just needed him to sustain me in the midst of that experience. For some reason I still cannot fully understand, he seemed to leave me alone. For the first time in my life, when I needed him the most, I couldn't sense his presence or his comfort or his peace. I felt left to my own strength and resource, which of course were weak and used up.
That experience of seeming abandonment shattered a trust in God that all my life to that point had been unshakeable and reflexive. It's taken years of hard work between the two of us to build back that trust, but I admit, it's still a bit shaky.
Just yesterday, Andrew and I took a quick overnight trip to Zermatt, a village at the foot of the world famous and iconic Matterhorn, a sharp, toothy peak in southern Switzerland. Throughout the entire drive down late on Wednesday night and subsequent hiking day on Thursday, we saw bold evidence of God's hand on us, his provision for exactly what we needed when we needed it. Everything was working out perfectly when it might have gone badly (we could have hit hours-long traffic jams, missed the 11 p.m. train from Täsch into Zermatt, been locked out of our hotel. Thankfully, we avoided these possibilities). As we hiked, we were literally "on the mountaintop" and reveled in God's stunning and awe-inspiring creation. The weather gave us a few hours' window of perfection to get spectacular pictures and enjoy the scenery before it clouded over and we could no longer see the peak. I felt close to God, I experienced his faithfulness and my trust was increased.Then we drove down from the mountain and back home into the flatlands of northern Switzerland. We left the "mountaintop."
Less than 24 hours later, I'm face-to-face with a brick wall of seeming impossible circumstances that are riddled with uncertainty, enormous obstacles and fear-inducing possibilities. My trust is in danger of faltering. Today, here "in the valley" I am reminded that trust isn't a feeling or a state of being. It's a choice. A hard choice that takes effort, strength and determination.
I don't know why we turn mountains and valleys into spiritual metaphors. We often say we're "on the mountaintop" when we're in a moment of spiritual excitement, wonder, deep trust and comfort or peace. When we're "in the valley" we're experiencing a lack of spiritual resources, or perhaps suffering and trials, difficult obstacles, disappointment, grief, fear or depression.
Well, that metaphor couldn't be more tangible to me than today. Yet, with the view of the Matterhorn fresh in my memory, and my clear memory of how he gave us everything we needed when we needed it, I am making the difficult choice of trusting God to work everything out to his good and perfect plan, for my good (not for my comfort necessarily but for my good) and believe that he is in control when we are so obviously not able to be.
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