In between slicing bananas (to eat with peanut butter), and listening to my dad shoot a large possum on my deck, I talked with an old friend tonight. Well, talked a bit. But I mostly listened.
This person has seen a side of Christianity that would make your skin crawl. He’s been down roads that would make you blush. Been hurt in such a way that the “family of God” has become a laughing matter to him instead of a comfort. Perhaps some of you would be too uncomfortable to hear his rants. To listen to his stories.
But there is something wild and gravely familiar in his voice. Our stories are unbelievably close. We compare notes and I groan at the realization that someone else will be facing the Reaping Days. And tonight, he seemed restless. Moved. Hungry. Aching for the God he knows is real. And yet frustrated with so much.
I wish with all of my heart that I could tell him to fling everything away and that if he throws himself upon the Arms that all of his pains, fears, and troubles will disappear. But he knows better. And so do I. All I know to do is to whisper that God is real. That God is Love. The real kind. Unlike the type that promises a Great Night and Glory Upon Glory. That finding rest will require dying to self. That it all takes time.
A. W. Tozer once said, “Thirsty hearts are those whose longings have been wakened by the touch of God within them.”
Sometimes finding yourself with a thirsty heart is the best place to be.