Would God look at me and say, “I’m not sure what to do with this one”?

 

At the end of that day, Rufina’s first day of working in our house, I was embarrassed that I’d struggled so much to understand her Spanish and mortified that I’d cried—more than once. I scolded myself for acting like a big baby.

 

Rather than admit my failures to others, my initial instinct was to keep my struggles a secret, and to lecture myself, “Pull yourself together!”

 

At that time, I could have used words from dear Chuck Swindoll, who reminds us that God keeps track of our tears. “Each tear [is] entered in your ledger, each ache written in your book” (Psalm 56:8, The Message).

 

Chuck says that usually tears “appear when our soul is overwhelmed” and that “a teardrop on earth summons the King of Heaven. Rather than being ashamed or disappointed, the Lord takes note of our inner friction when hard times are oiled by tears. He turns these situations into moments of tenderness; He never forgets those crises in our lives where tears were shed.

 

“One of the great drawbacks of our cold, sophisticated society,” Chuck continues, “is its reluctance to show tears. For some strange reason, men feel that tears are a sign of weakness . . . and many an adult feels to cry is to be immature. . . . How unfortunate!

 

“The consequence,” Chuck continues, “is that we place a watchdog named ‘restraint’ before our hearts. This animal is trained to bark, snap, and scare away any unexpected guest who seeks entrance.

 

“The ultimate result is a well-guarded, highly respectable, uninvolved heart surrounded by heavy bars of confinement. . . .”

 

Chuck says we must “impound restraint and let a little tenderness run loose. You might lose a little of your polished respectability, but you’ll have a lot more freedom. And a lot less pride.” (Charles R. Swindoll, Growing Strong in the Seasons of Life)

 

Chuck nailed it. Pride. I’m okay with helping others with their burdens, but . . . not comfortable with admitting my needs and asking for help. However, the Bible tells us to bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). That means sometimes I need to be on the receiving end. To do that I’d have to swallow my pride and admit my flaws and failures. And in the end, I gave in and asked for help—God Himself led me to call Linda Lackey to help me understand Rufina. What a relief!

 

That evening, I berated myself for my poor performance throughout that day. I was disappointed in myself, ashamed of my weaknesses. Why hadn’t I done a better job of wrestling through my panic and confusion? Why had I acted like a wimp?

 

And spiritually—where was I? Did I have a faith problem? If my faith had been stronger, would I have not made such a mess of things? Was even God disappointed in me?

 

It’s easy to beat up on ourselves when we mess up. And yet, Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened. . . . Learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart” (Matthew 11:28-20, NIV).

 

Or, as The Message words it: “Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live. . . .”

 

Hope When It Hurts writes: “In those moments and seasons, we can come to know the heart of our Savior, simply learning to rest in his presence. . . . He’s not distant in these moments, snapping at us to get our act together.”

 

“No, he clearly tells us that he weeps with us in our tears and receives us in [our] weak and needy state. Even though he sees the bigger picture and knows our pain won’t be wasted, he still grieves with us in our pain as a perfect Father or Mother would with their hurting child. 

 

“. . . Though you may feel weak in faith, trust that he sees and knows your deepest sorrows and is the only One who is able to comfort you with a complete and perfect love, compassion, and comfort. . . . Christ sees and understands even better than we do. Instead of running from pain, let’s rest in his comfort” (Hope When It Hurts).

 

Though I was stressed and oh-so-weary, somewhere deep down I knew I should take a deep breath and just rest—not try to accomplish much that evening. I told myself to embrace—to welcome—the fact that God was with me, He was not mad at me, and He would help me do better the next day.

 

“If the mountain seems too big today then climb a hill instead. . . .

A day is not a lifetime. A rest is not defeat.

Don’t think of it as failure, just a quiet, kind retreat.

It’s okay to take a moment from an anxious, fractured mind.

The world will not stop turning while you get realigned.

The mountain will still be there when you want to try again. . . .”

Laura Ding-Edwards

 

Elisabeth Elliot so wisely pointed out that “It’s not the experiences of our lives that change us; it is our response to those experiences.”

 

How true. Tomorrow what would I do about the rough day I’d just had? What should be—what would be—my response to my failures, my tears, my disappointment in myself? 

 

“Do the best you can until you know better.

Then when you know better, do better.”

Maya Angelou

 

Looking back now, all these years later, I recognize I had done what Maya Angelou said: I did the best I could that day. If I’d known how to do it better, I would have. What grace Maya Angelou’s words offer us: When the time comes that we do know better, we can and will do better. I love the way God enables mere humans to find words to illustrate His principles.

 

“God is not in the business of leaving things broken and messy. He’s not a God that sees a hard situation, shrugs, and says, ‘I guess I’m not really sure what to do with this one!’ He’s a God that brings life from death, beauty from ashes, hope from despair, light from darkness, and healing from the most broken, mixed up, and messy situations” (Stephanie May Wilson, The Lipstick Gospel Devotional).

 

I would rest that evening and then, the next morning, I’d make a fresh start—I’d leave behind my self-criticism and despair and instead, I’d reach for hope and a can-do attitude, believing God was always with me, cheering me on, urging me to trust Him for the ability to do better—mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and physically.

That reminds me of the poem Thomas Chisholm penned in 1923 that was later made into the dear old hymn that I love so much:

 

Great is Thy faithfulness!

Morning by morning new mercies I see.

All I have needed Thy hand hath provided.

Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me! . . .

 

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,

Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide.

Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,

Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside.

All I have needed Thy hand hath provided;

Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!

(“Great is Thy Faithfulness,” written by Thomas Chisholm; in public domain, based on Lamentations 3:22-23)

 

I could rest assured that night, confident that, 

come morning, new mercies I’d see.