1 How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? Psalm 13:1
After the election, I noticed how quickly we reach for something certain to say. “God is in control.” “Jesus is still King.” “Our hope isn’t in a candidate.” I believe those things too. But sometimes when I hear those words, I feel frustrated. I’ve been trying to understand why.
Usually, it’s not because the words are untrue. It feels like there’s no room to say anything else. Someone says they’re afraid, and before we know what they’re afraid of, we remind them not to fear. Someone says they’re disappointed, and we jump in to tell them where their hope should be. The answer might be true. But I wonder if we’ve really heard the person yet.
Then I have to admit something uncomfortable. Sometimes I haven’t really listened to the person offering the answer either. I hear “God is in control” and catch myself assuming they’re avoiding reality. But maybe they’re reminding themselves of the only thing helping them through the day. Maybe those few words carry a whole history with God that I haven’t noticed.
I want us to care more about someone else’s pain. But I’m realizing I need to care more about someone else’s faith, too.
That’s part of what keeps drawing me back to Psalm 13. David begins with a question. “How long?” And then he asks it again. He’s talking to God about feeling forgotten. He’s bringing the ache of God’s absence right into God’s presence.
Something about that prayer feels deeply uncomfortable to me. Sometimes I wait until I’ve worked through my questions before I pray. I want to bring God something settled that sounds like I’ve remembered everything I’m supposed to believe.
But David brings the question while it’s still a question. He doesn’t seem worried about whether it sounds polished. He wants God to answer him. I wonder what would happen if I prayed a little more like that.
“Father, I know You are good, but I’m struggling with what I see.” “I believe You are present, but I feel alone.” “I want to trust You, and I don’t know what that looks like here.”
Those are hard things to admit. Part of me wants to rush past them to get to a better place. But leaving them out of my prayers doesn’t make them go away, and I don’t want my relationship with God to be the place where I hide what I’m actually experiencing.
By the end of Psalm 13, David turns to trust. I’m grateful the prayer holds both: the raw questions that give words to my ache, and the trust that reminds me to keep turning toward God even when things remain unresolved.
I don’t want to get so attached to being unresolved that I stop expecting God to meet me. But I also don’t want to say I’m at peace just because I think that’s what a faithful Christian should say. I want to bring Him what’s really there.
Right now, some of what’s there is concern about the future. Some is frustration with how Christians talk to each other. It’s easier to talk about making room for lament than admit how little room I sometimes make for people who get under my skin.
But if I’m asking Jesus to help me listen, I can’t decide ahead of time that only certain people deserve to be heard. Maybe I don’t need to leave every conversation with a correction ready.
Maybe I can ask someone what they’re afraid of. Maybe I can ask someone what they mean when they say they’re trusting God, and really listen for the answer. Maybe I can listen long enough to discover something I didn’t see coming. And maybe, when I’m the one who’s hurting, I can say so without making someone else guess.
“I believe that too. I’m just having a hard time right now.”
That feels like an honest place to start.
I still believe God is sovereign. I still believe His kingdom is eternal. I still believe Jesus is worthy of my trust. I’m asking Him to teach me how to live those beliefs in this particular moment, with these questions, these neighbors, and this impatient heart.
I don’t know exactly what that will require tomorrow. Today I can tell Him the truth. I can stay long enough to listen.
