The email in my inbox unsettled me. Sent from a girl who is equal parts family and friend, the letter was raw and real. Through the computer screen, it was obvious that the words poured from a desperate heart. As I settled in my chair to consume her thoughts, my mind was already racing to formulate an encouraging response…until I hit these sentences:
“They were discussing how God cares about you, every detail of you. And although in my head I know that’s probably true, something in me just doesn’t buy it. Not at all. I don’t see how God can care about every detail of every person individually. I think He knows our names and some facts about us or the overall trajectory of our lives. But I don’t think he cares about what flavor of tea I like, or if I feel sad for a couple of minutes, or even whether I stay at my University or transfer to another. In my head, He’s like an employer or hippie Dad. And when I tried to figure out why I believe this, I traced it back to the fact that I am a feeler. And God hasn’t given me any feeling experiences in a long time… Basically, I need a specific-to-me grand gesture from God. I need to see him care for me as an individual, to make me feel special and set apart, even though He’s also caring for everyone else.”
I froze. Re-reading her words, I thought how weird it was that someone else had written the condition of my heart so specifically. Through her honesty, she unknowingly gave voice to thoughts I had been trying to ignore.
Countless times in the following weeks, I sat at my laptop, willing my fingers to respond. They would fly across the keys but inevitably hit delete every time. Once, in a bold move, I even typed the truth of my own struggle. I wrote that I was so weary, my energy so spent, my passion so gone, my heart so splintered. I deleted that, too. Seeing my faithless confession displayed was painful.
The problem was that I had experienced intimate moments with God before. Beautifully sweet, encouraging, and loving moments… but it had been a really, really long time. I knew something was wrong – was off, but I didn’t know what, nor what to do about it. I was living like it was copacetic, but my heart ached from the lack.
As the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, the email continued to haunt me. But I couldn’t do it. I could not put in writing what my heart was no longer sure was true.
Eventually, I stopped trying to respond.