God and I aren’t on the best of terms right now.
Ever since I read the stories of Rebekah, Rachel, Esther, and even Mary lo these many years, it was clear to me: God provided husbands. And if He did for those women, and for so many others since, then He would for me, right?
Not so much.
This same God that provided husbands for those Biblical women-heroes, my sisters, countless friends and roommates, is also a God of miracles. He found a kidney for my friend’s daughter, not once–but twice. He healed my father from cancer. He took my grandma before cancer and its heinous treatments made her life miserable. He saved my life 11 years ago–though I still maintain that was a cosmic screw-up and I really should have died.
Miracle after miracle He performs, and yet still, after 21 years of marriage-able dating, I am alone. Kidneys are easier to find, and cancer is easier to cure than it is to find men, apparently.
It pisses me off.
All of this is to say that the Boy from Last Summer made a brief appearance Saturday night.
(How’s that for burying the lead?)
Just as soon as he appeared, he was gone a mere 18 hours later, but not before he managed to tear off the scar tissue of last summer’s broken heart, leaving me on the roadside bleeding out once again. And since I can’t yell and scream at him for the hurt and injustice I feel, I spent the better part of last night and this morning yelling and screaming at God. Because really, why should I believe anymore? Why let this happen over and over again? And for the love of all that is holy, STOP GIVING ME GLIMPSES OF FALSE HOPE, LUCY. I seriously feel like Charlie Brown, ready to kick that football, only to end up flat on my back every single time.
I medicated my pain with work–3 hours in my classroom, then 2 hours grading at home–and finally decided to go for a walk. It was cloudy all day, so I checked the forecast and there was little chance of rain. So of course, as I got in my car to drive to one of my favorite trails, it started sprinkling.
“Figures,” I thought to myself. Just keeping on par with the sucky events of the weekend.
I drove to the trail just the same, accepting that I’d probably be drenched after my walk. As I parked at the trailhead, I thought of all the miracles I’ve seen in my life, bitter that the only miracle I’ve ever asked for is never going to happen. “The least you can do is hold off the rain until my walk is over. You know, since you can’t find me a husband. Give me this.”
I said this, fully expecting to still get rained on, of course. Because if there is one thing I am sure of at this point in my life, it is that God does not listen to me. Mostly because He thinks I died 11 years ago. That’s my explanation, anyway.
I set out on the trail, me and tiny sprinkles. Five minutes in, I decided that if it was still raining at 10 minutes, I’d turn around and just walk for 20 minutes instead of 30. But at the 10 minute mark, the sprinkles were gone. The clouds were still there, but no rain was falling.
It didn’t start again the rest of my walk, and as I look on my deck right now, the sunshine outweighs the clouds.
This morning, I was all set to just stop believing in God altogether. This afternoon, He reminded me why I can’t.