Psalms 117-119
The moment something feels unusual in my body, I start paying attention. Perhaps a little too much attention. I notice the sensation, wonder whether it was there yesterday, and begin considering what it might mean. By the time I think to pray, my mind has usually conducted a fairly extensive investigation without arriving at anything particularly reassuring.
I would love for prayer to come first.
To hear something worrying and immediately turn to God, without needing to pass through every possible explanation on the way. There are days when that feels natural, when I can honestly say that I trust Him with whatever comes next. Then there are days when uncertainty takes up so much room that everything I know about His faithfulness becomes strangely difficult to reach.
Which is an uncomfortable thing to admit when He has already given me so many reasons to trust Him.
Psalm 117 is only two verses long, but it gives me something I could spend considerably longer learning to believe in the middle of an ordinary, anxious day:
His faithfulness endures forever. I read that and believe it. Then something frightens me, and apparently I would also like confirmation that “forever” includes this particular afternoon.
I suppose that is where my struggle lives. I believe in God’s faithfulness, but I still want to know what He is going to do. I want reassurance about my body, my recovery, and the things I cannot see ahead of me. I would quite like a detailed explanation, preferably before I have to trust Him with the next step.
I once told my mom that recovery feels like walking through a dark room, holding onto the fabric of God’s clothing for guidance. I cannot see where I am going. I can only hold on and follow.
Even as I described it, I knew how much I wanted the lights switched on.
There is something vulnerable about being led when I cannot inspect the path for myself. I want to trust God completely, but sometimes I catch myself trying to work out the entire room while still holding onto Him. Where are we going? How much longer? Is there something ahead I should prepare for? At what point will I feel certain enough to relax?
Perhaps I keep waiting for trust to feel like certainty. For my body to feel familiar again, for the next answer to arrive, for enough things to settle that surrender becomes comfortable. But there will probably always be something I cannot account for. If I need every uncertainty resolved before I can rest in God, I may spend a very long time waiting.
I want the kind of faith that lets me pray boldly for healing and trust that my life is in His hands. I am also learning that I can bring Him a frightened, unfinished prayer. I do not have to wait until I sound confident enough. He already knows what I am feeling; I might as well stop making Him the last person I tell.
Yet fear is only one part of what these chapters brought to the surface.
When I remember difficult seasons, I remember God quite clearly. I can look back at treatment and recognize how He sustained me, how peace arrived when I had very little ability to produce it myself. His goodness is woven into my memory of those days.
It is the easier days that seem to loosen my attention.
When life feels manageable, prayer becomes something I can do later. I have plans, energy, things to enjoy. Nothing is urgently sending me to God, and somehow I begin treating that lack of urgency as though it means I need Him less.
Psalm 118 keeps returning to thanksgiving, and near its closing, the psalmist makes it personal:
You are my God.
I want to remember that when I am having a lovely day, too. When I feel well enough to enjoy myself, when something works out, when I am simply sitting at home with nothing especially frightening to report. I want there to be room in my prayers for the life I am enjoying.
It would be strange, wouldn't it, to ask God to carry me up the mountain and then become too occupied with the view to speak to Him?
And yet I recognize something of myself in that.
I do not want suffering to be the only thing that keeps me attentive. I want to develop the habit of turning toward Him while I am happy, while I am comfortable, while the blessings are still happening. To enjoy what He has given me with an awareness of Him that survives beyond the moment I receive it.
That desire becomes more demanding in Psalm 119, because keeping God close also means being willing to let His Word interfere with how I would otherwise behave.
I can read about love and agree with every sentence. Of course I should be patient. Of course I should serve people, listen carefully, and consider their needs. All of this sounds entirely reasonable while nobody is testing my patience.
Then somebody does.
Or I am tired, already overwhelmed, and someone needs more from me than I feel prepared to give. Suddenly the love I sincerely want to practice feels considerably less effortless. I have explanations for my irritation, most of them quite convincing to me. I am exhausted. They could have been more considerate. Surely someone else could handle this for once.
Perhaps they could. I may genuinely need rest, too. But I also know how easily a legitimate feeling becomes permission to speak carelessly or stop considering the person in front of me.
That is why this prayer in Psalm 119 feels so necessary:
The writer asks for understanding with the intention of living differently. There is a willingness in that prayer that makes me examine my own. When I ask God to teach me, am I prepared for the lesson to show up in a conversation I find frustrating? Am I willing for His instruction to change my response while I still feel justified in the one I originally wanted to give?
I want my family and friends to see something of Jesus through me. That is a beautiful desire to write down, but they experience me in ordinary life. They hear my tone. They notice whether I listen, whether I help willingly, whether I can admit that I was wrong without attaching an explanation that quietly makes it their fault again.
I want them to feel the change there.
And I need God's help for that, because wanting to love like Jesus has not somehow made me endlessly patient. I still get tired. I still become defensive. I still have moments when being understood feels far more urgent than understanding someone else.
Reading these chapters together, I begin to see how much of my life needs the same dependence. My fear needs somewhere to go. My gratitude needs attention. My love for other people needs instruction and practice. There is no season in which I have quite outgrown the need to ask God for help.
Some days I ask with confidence. Other days I tell Him that I feel stuck, that I cannot see where this is going, that I am struggling to imagine how things might become better. Speaking honestly to Him helps. So does returning to His Word and allowing what He has said to steady thoughts that have wandered considerably further than the facts.
I am still learning to pray before worry has exhausted me, to give thanks before comfort has distracted me, and to love before my patience has conveniently decided someone does not deserve it.
For now, I am holding onto the fabric in that dark room. I would still very much appreciate some light. But I want to learn to follow Him here—and when I can finally see where He has brought me, I want to remember why I stayed close.
I needed Him to find my way.
I will need Him to live well when I get there.