Our Help, Our Shadow

For You have been my help,

And in the shadow of Your wings I sing for joy. (PS 63:7)

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“I’m so tired,” I say, rather helplessly over the phone to my long-time friend, Rachel. 

Rachel is my forever. And as a chronic commitment-phobe, the idea of a “forever” anything usually isn’t on the table. But Rachel’s home. She became family to me when I was still learning what that meant. 

“I just- I just feel like I’m-” I continue, cut off, once again, by the sounds of my own cries bubbling in my throat. But Rachel knows me. Knows me better than most. And so she finishes my words,

“Like you’re at the end of your rope.”

I can hear the gentleness in her voice. Unable to speak, I nod. She can’t see me, but somehow she still does. She always has. I know I’m safe, so I sob some more, unfazed by the loudness of my sniffling. 

I was upset because I had a pocket full of prayers- only all the prayers were just one prayer, prayed over and over and over. 

“When will I heal?”

It was a small question. But it was one that I was, quite truly, frustrated with asking. 

So, you see, I’ve been disassociated for a couple of years now. To disassociate is to disconnect from your thoughts, feelings, surroundings, memories, actions, and even identity in the pursuit of self-preservation. It’s mostly common in those with PTSD, which I also have. It’s a thing your brain does to protect you. Basically, you experience emotional pain and trauma to such an intense degree, that the most efficient way your mind knows to support you, is to disconnect from your reality.

It’s thoughtful, really. Remembering this brings me gratitude for my body. It is only trying to help. But, also. Each day that I wake up, and feel apart from the world, is another day I’m reminded of my wounds.  

And I’m tired. I’m tired of hurting. 

I’m tired of being tired. This is where I was when Rachel called me:

at the end of my rope. 

And I tried to find comfort in the verses, but sometimes it felt like God made big promises with no delivery. I read the scriptures that say God won’t forsake us, and remember moments where I felt alone. I read the scriptures that say God sustains us, and remember moments where I felt deep in depravity. I read the scriptures that say God is our Help and Shadow, and remember moments where I felt in danger, under the heat of the scorching, painful sun.

So what do we say to this? What do we say in these very real experiences we have where God is, honestly, hard to find? And even more so, hard to believe.

I think, these are the times that we look away from God’s action, and to God’s character. Because action is mistakable. Especially since, God isn’t really the showy type. So it’s easy to assume that God’s out of sight, when His work is. 

There’s an incredibly cheesy, Pinterest-energy quote that goes, “when you can’t see God’s hand, trust God’s heart.” And I think there’s so much truth to this. That when we find ourselves skeptical of God’s engagement in our lives, we ought to hold to what we know of God. What we know of God’s being. 

Psalm 63:7 claims that our God is Help, is Shadow, is ground for singing for Joy. 

And yeah, that feels far from my truth right now, gonna be honest.

But, like, I’ve got an uninspired brain and bad eyes. If the only things that could happen were things I could picture, then not much would happen. Besides, God’s surprised me before. So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a reality where God hasn’t forgotten me, and rather, has always been fighting on my behalf. That God’s taped up each straggly prayer I’ve ever offered onto the mirror of His bathroom. That no request or tear or burden has gone unnoticed, unheld.

That, my God is Love Incarnate. Not casual love, no way. But the kind of Love that infuses itself within moments, within strands of time and existence. The kind of Love that is ever-present, ever-working. 

And that this exists within me. Even now. Especially now, in the days where I am too tired for calls, or conversations, or cuddles. Where I, in my graceless heart, respond more often with judgement and less with understanding. Where I, in my heavy bones, cancel plans and sleep the sun away. That, in this version of myself, when all I can offer is hardly anything at all, I am still Love. I am still Loved. 

I am still Helped. I am still covered under the shadow of Wings. I am still singing for Joy.