As I was sitting and reading my daily devotions recently, I came to a prayer in the book Arms Open Wide by Sherri Gragg: “Too often I have turned to you in fear and asked: Oh Lord, don’t you care?”
As I read the prayer out loud, something in me broke, and I started crying, all too vividly remembering the many times I’ve cried out to God about my desire for a family, children, traditions, people to grow old with, and a husband to hold me and tell me everything was going to be okay. I cried, remembering all the years of waiting, of enduring the space between “no longer” and “not yet,” and reliving all the moments when I’ve felt forgotten by the God who claims to love me. I recalled the countless instances of frustration and impatience and even despair as the birthdays pass, and my situation seemingly grows more and more hopeless. I might never find the simplest and most complicated of life’s blessings: someone to love who also loves me.
Oh Lord, don’t you care?
And then, suddenly, in the silence of my warm and simple apartment, a still, small voice spoke words of comfort clearly and directly into my soul. I felt such beautiful reassurance of the Lord’s love and goodness, of his protection, of his care.
It was one of those rare, almost impossible to attain moments where I felt Jesus carrying me, holding me close. It was a fleeting glimpse into the depth of his love for me—all really was calm, and all really was bright.1