WRESTLING WITH GOD

It looks like spiritual seizure, soul flailing at the immortal, invisible God only wise. It looks like wrangling mud – boxing wind. People who love me say out loud, God does not need touch.

You’re wasting your breath. That energy could be spent on the poor – looking for lost coins, feeding lambs, pulling logs out of your eye, stock-piling oil for your lamp.

I call Job to my mind, blood boiling, grappling Spirit. I will not let You go until You answer me.

I read, Rachel, weeping for her children – refusing to be comforted.

I see Jacob, head on stone, not climbing stairs – wrestling for blessing that is not stolen.

I pretend Sarah sitting on the altar – wrapping soul around God, no ropes around her son. I think words she does not say. No, that is not who You are. I will not move. Explain Yourself to me. I imagine God saying, Well done, and putting the ram away.

I paint a permission for myself.  A carpenter grips a fisherman across the chest, swings a leg behind his knees, rolls him in the dust – before the foot washing.

Struggle is intimate – soul and Spirit. There is no space between for truth-tellers or intercessors or defenders of the faith or the blessed wounds of friends.

There is a covenant. There are expectations – not to be ignored. Not to be left lying desperate on a floor itchy with yesterday’s crumbs. Not to be left searching endlessly through heart-sized boxes for the roots of wicked ways asking, WHAT is going ON?  Not to hear silence.

This is not me resting head on lap, batting eyes, while Son speaks cryptic and in metaphor. I am not at peace, puzzled, asking, Are you talking about me, Lord?

I can’t get close enough. I want nearer, my God, to Thee. I want answer. I want comfort. I want blessing. I want the Everlasting Arms’ grip around me. I want to feel Spirit breath on my neck. I don’t need to see the face – I only ask for Present. Accounted for. Invested in the outcome. I lean. I call on reserves of strength. My mind rewinds to everything I have learned of God – how Spirit works and moves and holds. I suspend all need for personal space. My air goes in and out in rhythm. Deliberate. Counting.

I hurt. My hand is over my mouth.

Emmanuel.

I have heard of Thee by the hearing of the ear; but now my eye sees Thee.  ~ Job 42:5