He won't let go
When watching and waiting seems to have no end.
Smelling the cinnamon, cardamom, and ginger wafting from my pot of chai brings a joyful stillness to another ordinary day. After letting the water steep the tea leaves and adding milk, a good cup of chai requires the important step of waiting for “the rise” of the foam to reach the top before you turn off the heat. It calls for diligent watching and waiting.
This watching and waiting can be exhausting. Your eyes can get bored, tired, and distracted. In this season, I find myself sitting with Jesus, looking to him in his word, in worship, and in community, but I don’t know if that heat will ever turn off.
Like the Psalmist who writes, “My eyes strain to see your rescue, to see the truth of your promise fulfilled” (Psalm 119:123 NLT), I too am straining from this watching and waiting.
Other versions translate this to, “My eyes grow weary,” or “My eyes fail,” (CSB and NIV respectively). Those eyes strained so much to see rescue and salvation, that they’re ”done.”
I know who God is in my head, I’ve seen him come through before, but my eyes have failed to see him now. Dwelling with Jesus calls for sitting with him, settling in where He has you, even if it’s the darkest pit.
I’ve wrestled with depression over the last five years, so I sit in this place where I can’t tell if Jesus can hear me. I can’t tell if his presence is near. I’ve faced church trauma and loss and grief from broken relationships. My daughter lives with varying medical needs that seem to have no end in sight. My own body continues to fail me between migraines, chronic pain, and other complications.
I spent most of these years praying for wholeness and healing. And yet, those prayers seem to fall short.
What happens when you faithfully plead for him to meet you in this and he doesn’t? What does dwelling with God mean when you can’t hear him?
In Abraham Verghese’s Covenant of Water,1 a doctor meets a young woman who finds herself in a similar, metaphorical pit:
“He was an expert on violent, tragic loss; now she had joined his ranks. He knew a simple truth: there was never anything healing one could say. One could only be. The best friends in such times were those who had no agenda other than to be present, to offer themselves…”
Just as the doctor meets this young woman, Jesus meets me. In this pit, he’s showing up with no other agenda than to just be present.
After all, Jesus too is an “expert on violent, tragic loss.”
He promises in Isaiah 41:10, “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be afraid, for I am your God. I will strengthen you; I will help you; I will hold on to you with my righteous right hand.” (NIV, emphasis added)
He won’t let go, even if it doesn’t feel like it.
My eyes have strained; they’re done. More than waiting for relief, I need to look to Jesus, dwell with Jesus, and let him embrace me.
Some Sundays later, I’m surprised to find myself singing “You Hold My World”2 at church, believing these words to be true: “You hold my world in Your Hands and I’m not afraid. My world is safe in Your hands.”
We continue singing:
“You won't let go of me
You will take care of me
You won't let go of me”
It’s his presence. It’s him holding my hand, not letting go. He promises help to help me. (Isaiah 41:13)
It’s in this place, where I find God saying, I still got you. Rather than trying to plead for relief in all these things—which are good things I’m asking of the Lord —I find him calling me to dwell. To look at him and simply just be. Physical healing and lift from my depression could still come, but the greatest thing, the best thing, is his presence. This offering of himself.
To strain is to hope. To trust that in Christ, in God with us, is the power and wisdom from above. He’s going to come through, one way or another. We may not see it on this side of eternity. We may keep straining until He calls us home, but I know He promises to not let us go now.
Perhaps what God is inviting me into is friendship. The kind where there is no other type of agenda but to just show up, maybe even over a hot cup of chai.
