Is It Well?

My best friend has moved on and seems to have left me behind, for reasons I don’t understand.

I’m in a season of extraordinary physical pain, and my doctors have no answers.

I’m facing loss and change. It’s inevitable. It’s necessary. But it’s incredibly hard, and I hate it.

People I love are hurting. And I am powerless to change it.

Lately it seems as though life is brutal one second and beautiful the next, often moving so quickly from one to the other that I’m left spinning. I cry out to God, and in every moment of pain and every moment of joy, I continue to say the words I believe with all my heart: It is well.

But the truth is that it isn’t well. I’m questioning God’s ways. I’m overwhelmed with worry. And no matter what I pray or say to myself, I’m left with the same four words: It. Is. Not. Well.  

Last night I crawled into bed after another long day. I leaned back into my pillow, closed my eyes, and tried to pray. I couldn’t think of a single word. Not one. I know I don’t need words. God knows my heart. But I will always be a person who doesn’t truly know what I think until I’ve put my feelings into words.

So I laid there grasping for words. And finally a prayer came to me—one I’ve said so often that I don’t even think through it anymore. One I said at a meeting just a couple of nights ago: “God, grant me. . .”

That’s as far as I got. My heart was spent. My mind was exhausted. I’ve memorized that prayer, but I couldn’t think of the rest of the words. Just “God, grant me. . .”

Grant me what? What is it I need? What is it I’m feeling? Why can’t I pray?

I remembered an old school exercise of taking apart sentences and looking at each word in them. It’s an exercise I always enjoyed, loving words the way I do. So I took this sentence apart and looked at each word.

First? God. Who was He to me in that moment? Psalm 139 immediately came to mind. It is the psalm of my life, the one I return to again and again. Every verse holds deep meaning for me, but the ones that I thought of were nine and ten: “If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.” So who is God? The One who made me. The One who will not let me go, who holds fast to me even when I can’t hold on to Him. Two more verses came to mind on the heels of that one—verses that I have clung to during some of the most difficult times of my life: “Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3:22-23) Again—who is God? Loving. Compassionate. And faithful without end.

I went to the next word in the sentence: grant. What did I need God to grant me right at that moment? And what do I know about God and the way He gives? I thought of a verse that I have written down on a notecard—a notecard that I use as a bookmark in one of my recovery books: “My God will supply every need of yours according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:19) God gives freely in order to meet every single one of my needs. When I think back over my life—over the darkest days, over the days wasted in addiction, over the happiest days—I know, unequivocally, that God granted me what I needed on every one of those days. He granted me life, even when I was convinced I didn’t want it. He granted me people to guide me through recovery. He granted me the unconditional love of my Monty. He granted me a Mom who has prayed for me every single day of my life and a Dad who loves me so much that he pushes me to see potential in me that I don’t see in myself. He’s granted me sisters and a brother who make me laugh, cry with me, and remind me that I’m worth loving. If God can grant me all of that, without me even asking for it, why would I ever need to question if He can give me what I need?

And finally—the last word in the sentence. Me. The one God loves so richly and gives to so freely. The one who often feels less worthy than others but is worth so much to God that He has my name engraved on the palm of His hand. I have a tattoo of my precious Ricky on one of my wrists, and the words “Look Up” on my other wrist—an image and words that mean so much to me that I want them in front of me all the time. God did that with my name on His palm. (Isaiah 49:16) Then He sent His son to die on the cross for me, putting a nail right through that palm. How could I doubt what I mean to Him?

And just like that, the rest of that one sentence of the prayer came to me—God, grant me the serenity. Serenity. That’s what I needed. I took a deep breath and felt myself relax for the first time in days. The One who knows me best once again freely gave me what I needed most.

I looked at Mackin, between Monty and me, as he rolled over and put his little cat arm on Monty. I thought of a picture I took of him the other night while Monty and I were working on a puzzle. Whenever we do a puzzle, Mackin lays on top of the pieces so that he can be close to Monty. He falls asleep there, at peace because he’s sleeping on his daddy’s hands.

I don’t know how the pieces of my life will fit together. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that they will. But I know I’m in God’s hands. And the next time I begin to spin mentally, wondering and questioning and feeling overwhelmed, I will remember that. I know myself—I know that the next time could be in five minutes. But if it is, I will walk myself through this exercise again. I will remind myself that I am held fast in the hands of the One who made me and gives me what I need. And it will be well. It will be well. With my soul.