Strengthened

I would be the first to admit that I have had an easy life. I grew up in a stable, loving environment. I was given great education. I have been spared great tragedy, and have suffered the loss only of two grandparents and one aunt. I have experienced good health, as have those in my immediate family. I have never gone hungry, never been homeless, never been poor. I do not boast in these things, for they are not of my own doing – rather, they are evidence that God's hand has been upon me since birth. For some reason I have yet to identify, He has seen fit to spoil me with ease.

And yet, in spite of this ease, I find myself - with surprising frequency - crying out like David: “My life is consumed by anguish and my years by groaning; my strength fails because of my affliction, and my bones grow weak.” (Ps 31:10) God has given me a weak heart – one that is constantly over-burdened by the groaning around me. Like any human, I have experienced my share of disappointed dreams. While my tragedies are nothing in comparison with those experienced by others – even others within my zip code – they are the only tragedies I have known. While my worst day is nothing in comparison with most of the rest of the world, I have felt pain that has broken me – pain that has pierced the deepest, softest layers of my well-protected soul. For though God has made my own burdens light, my natural ability to bear them has never been sufficient. My own strength ran out years ago.

In our church culture, it is unpopular to appear weak or broken. Somehow we have convinced ourselves that a relationship with Christ brings only joy and comfort in this life. Perhaps this started as an evangelistic ploy, as part of the “health and wealth Gospel” that was so popular. But now we are buying into it ourselves. Have we forgotten about the forty-two chapters of the book of Job?

God is the God of all comfort (2 Cor 1:3). This fact has become the foundation for the idea that a spoonful of Jesus removes all discomfort from life. Comfort, however, is not exactly the absence of discomfort; rather, comfort joins discomfort to make life more bearable. Life with the God of all comfort is not a life of ease. God can provide relief – He is all-powerful. He can ease our pain or change our circumstances. But sometimes He chooses not to. And who are we to challenge His motives? This was Job's error, and in response to such pride, God said, “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” (Job 38:4)

This pain we experience is an unavoidable fact of life in a fallen world. Some comfort may come from our hopeful future, and this joy amidst suffering is discussed at length in the entry titled Pit of Despair. Yet for many of us, the pain lingers. This is the thorn that remained in Paul's flesh, despite his pleas for its removal (2 Cor 12:7-8).

The song Praise You In This Storm by Casting Crowns describes life with the God of all comfort so beautifully. With tender pain, the song tells the story of mankind – opening their eyes after prayers for relief only to find more rain. The obvious defeat brings tears of remembrance to my eyes each time I hear it – tears that only increase when I hear what comes next: “But as the thunder rolls, I barely hear You whisper through the rain, 'I'm with you.'”

There will be times in life when you feel you can't go on. There will be times when you beg God over and over to remove the thorn from your flesh and He sovereignly, silently refuses. But this God of all comfort does not leave you to languish alone. Instead, He provides the strength to carry on in spite of the pain. The Old Testament is sprinkled with numerous instances where God tenderly promises to strengthen His people. In Isaiah 41, God tells His people, “I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand... For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you.” (verses 10b, 13) Most precious to me is Isaiah 46:4 - “Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.” God's strength is not an afterthought – it is His promise to “those whose hearts are fully committed to him.” (2 Chron 16:9)

In the Psalms, God's strength is compared to that of a fortress. “You are my strength... my fortress, my God on whom I can rely.” (Ps 59:17) I love this image. The word “fortress” does not conjure images of peace and restfulness, but rather images of war. In the midst of the longest, hardest, fiercest battle – smack dab in the middle of the action – stands a fortress. Its walls are impenetrable, its doors hold fast. Never in all civilization was a fortress as strong as this constructed by human hands. And inside, weary yet safe, injured yet bandaged, I stand. I cannot rest long, for battle still rages around me. I cannot live like a queen, blissfully ignorant of the realities of my world. My fortress has not removed the actuality of war. Rather, when I stand upon its walls I find strength to fight this battle. And within its walls I find protection from the evil one (2 Thes 3:3), so that when his attacks reach my heart, I know it is not a mortal wound. This is what the God of all comfort is for His people – a refuge and fortress, and strength to fight on.

A few weeks ago I heard a song for the first time at church – a song that caused me to cry a few subtle tears in public, which is something I try to avoid. It's an old hymn that I'm sure many have heard. It has been adapted to modern English by C. Kardinal, and the two verses read like this:

He gives more grace when the burdens grow greater. 
He sends more strength when the labors increase.

To added affliction He adds His mercy.

To multiplied trials, multiplied peace.

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,

When our strength has failed ‘ere the day is half done,

When we reach the end of our hoarded resources,

Our Father’s full giving is only begun.

There have been many days in my vapor of a life when my strength failed me before my feet ever hit the floor. My only hope on those days – and, indeed, on all of the others – was that my Creator lifted me out of bed and carried me in His arms from dawn 'til dusk, and often long past that, until I once again drifted off to sleep. I've made it through the pain, and I still harbor plenty of thorns. These burdens I carry – this weight of the world I continually heap upon my shoulders – feel anything but light. But I must remember that, compared to the sin-laden cross Jesus bore for me, my cross is barely a toothpick.