Silas
Beloved of All
Tears have a way of telling the truth that our busy hands try to hide. You have spent yourself making sure everyone else is happy, and now the inside of you feels hollow and threadbare. I hear that. That exhaustion is not a sign that you have failed; it is the deep cry of a soul that has been running on its own strength and has finally hit the wall. And strangely, that breaking point is not the end. Often it is the beginning of God’s real work.
When you are worn out from trying to hold a marriage together with your own grit, you are in exactly the place where you stop pretending you can fix it. The law of “I must do more, try harder, be better” was never meant to save you. It was meant to bring you to the end of yourself so you would let go and collapse into the arms of Jesus Christ. None of us can muscle our way into a life that pleases God. The things we could never accomplish by sheer will, He begins to produce in us naturally when we finally stop striving and start trusting.
That does not mean you do nothing. But it does mean you stop trying to be God in the situation. So often we take our desperation and turn it into a list of demands: “Lord, fix it like this, in this way, by this date.” We think we are praying, but we are really directing traffic. Prayer is not informing a confused God about your troubles, nor is it handing Him a blueprint you have drawn up. True prayer is pouring out your soul, just as you are doing right now through your tears, and then letting your hands fall open. It is saying, “God, I do not have the strength to make this right. I cannot even see straight. But You are sovereign and You are good, and so I consent to whatever You want to do. If You want to restore, restore. If You want to tear down, tear down. Do what You will, but hold me in the process.”
David understood this when his life was falling apart. He was pursued and betrayed, and he had every reason to grab control. Instead, he refused to lift a finger against the one who threatened him. He said, in effect, “If God wants to deal with him, God will do it. I am not going to help God out.” How often we make a mess by helping God out, because deep down we do not believe He can handle it without our frantic intervention. Abraham did it. Jacob did it. And we do it every time we think we have to prop up a failing marriage by our own scheming or emotional manipulation. You cannot keep it hanging by a thunderstorm string. But God can hold what you cannot.
So bring your complaint. Tell Him exactly how unappreciated you feel, how scared you are, how the years have worn you down into dust. He can take it. Job argued and wailed and wished he had never been born, and God did not strike him for it. The honesty of a broken heart is not an offense to Him. What offends Him is when we try to order Him around as if He were our servant. When we come demanding our rights, we are not glorifying Him as God. But when we come like Hannah, with a bitterness so deep we cannot even speak aloud, pouring out our soul before the Lord, we find a sympathetic ear. He hears. He bends low.
And here is the mystery you can lean into: the God who is sovereign over every crashing wave is also the God who loves you. A sovereign God without love would be terrifying. But His power is completely wrapped in a heart that is good. That means you can surrender. You can stop trying to be the savior of your own story. When David’s infant son lay dying, he wept and fasted and begged God to spare the child. God did not spare him. And David got up, washed his face, and worshiped. He had laid his request before God with every ounce of his being, and then he submitted to the outcome. That is not giving up; that is entrusting yourself to the One who sees what you cannot.
That desperate thirst you feel for something solid, something that will finally fill the emptiness inside you, was put there by God. The substitutes will never work. Being appreciated by people will not quench it. A repaired marriage, as good as that would be, will not ultimately satisfy the thirst for the living God. Jesus said, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink.” Not to a formula, not to an outcome, but to a Person. He reached down to you when you could not climb up to Him. He is still reaching.
So let your tears fall before Him. Tell Him you are at the bottom. If you want, you can even say, “Lord, if You want to take this marriage, take it. But oh God, hold me.” You are not bailing God out by holding on. You are finally in the position where He can do something real, something only He can take credit for, so that later you will not boast in your own cleverness but only in His mercy. Be still now. Stop directing. Pour out your heart, and then let Him speak His comfort over you. He will not leave you in the fog. He led Israel into a trap by the sea, and then He parted the waters and led them through. He knows when to tell you to stop crying out and start walking forward. You are not forgotten. You are simply being brought to the end of your own strength, and that is a holy place.
When you are worn out from trying to hold a marriage together with your own grit, you are in exactly the place where you stop pretending you can fix it. The law of “I must do more, try harder, be better” was never meant to save you. It was meant to bring you to the end of yourself so you would let go and collapse into the arms of Jesus Christ. None of us can muscle our way into a life that pleases God. The things we could never accomplish by sheer will, He begins to produce in us naturally when we finally stop striving and start trusting.
That does not mean you do nothing. But it does mean you stop trying to be God in the situation. So often we take our desperation and turn it into a list of demands: “Lord, fix it like this, in this way, by this date.” We think we are praying, but we are really directing traffic. Prayer is not informing a confused God about your troubles, nor is it handing Him a blueprint you have drawn up. True prayer is pouring out your soul, just as you are doing right now through your tears, and then letting your hands fall open. It is saying, “God, I do not have the strength to make this right. I cannot even see straight. But You are sovereign and You are good, and so I consent to whatever You want to do. If You want to restore, restore. If You want to tear down, tear down. Do what You will, but hold me in the process.”
David understood this when his life was falling apart. He was pursued and betrayed, and he had every reason to grab control. Instead, he refused to lift a finger against the one who threatened him. He said, in effect, “If God wants to deal with him, God will do it. I am not going to help God out.” How often we make a mess by helping God out, because deep down we do not believe He can handle it without our frantic intervention. Abraham did it. Jacob did it. And we do it every time we think we have to prop up a failing marriage by our own scheming or emotional manipulation. You cannot keep it hanging by a thunderstorm string. But God can hold what you cannot.
So bring your complaint. Tell Him exactly how unappreciated you feel, how scared you are, how the years have worn you down into dust. He can take it. Job argued and wailed and wished he had never been born, and God did not strike him for it. The honesty of a broken heart is not an offense to Him. What offends Him is when we try to order Him around as if He were our servant. When we come demanding our rights, we are not glorifying Him as God. But when we come like Hannah, with a bitterness so deep we cannot even speak aloud, pouring out our soul before the Lord, we find a sympathetic ear. He hears. He bends low.
And here is the mystery you can lean into: the God who is sovereign over every crashing wave is also the God who loves you. A sovereign God without love would be terrifying. But His power is completely wrapped in a heart that is good. That means you can surrender. You can stop trying to be the savior of your own story. When David’s infant son lay dying, he wept and fasted and begged God to spare the child. God did not spare him. And David got up, washed his face, and worshiped. He had laid his request before God with every ounce of his being, and then he submitted to the outcome. That is not giving up; that is entrusting yourself to the One who sees what you cannot.
That desperate thirst you feel for something solid, something that will finally fill the emptiness inside you, was put there by God. The substitutes will never work. Being appreciated by people will not quench it. A repaired marriage, as good as that would be, will not ultimately satisfy the thirst for the living God. Jesus said, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink.” Not to a formula, not to an outcome, but to a Person. He reached down to you when you could not climb up to Him. He is still reaching.
So let your tears fall before Him. Tell Him you are at the bottom. If you want, you can even say, “Lord, if You want to take this marriage, take it. But oh God, hold me.” You are not bailing God out by holding on. You are finally in the position where He can do something real, something only He can take credit for, so that later you will not boast in your own cleverness but only in His mercy. Be still now. Stop directing. Pour out your heart, and then let Him speak His comfort over you. He will not leave you in the fog. He led Israel into a trap by the sea, and then He parted the waters and led them through. He knows when to tell you to stop crying out and start walking forward. You are not forgotten. You are simply being brought to the end of your own strength, and that is a holy place.
