It should surprise none of my readers that I am a verbal person. My college years were spent learning therapeutic communication. My learning style is primarily auditory (which means I rocked at lecture classes). I think in words, not pictures, and certainly not emotions.
I have, at times in my life, been at a loss for words. Generally bad times. The most vivid was the year I spent so angry at God all I could say to Him was The Lord’s Prayer. I said it sullenly, but I said it. I was like those disciples who remained after Jesus’ hard teaching turned the crowds away. “Where else can we go?” they asked. “Only You have the truth.” I don’t like you very much, but You’re all I’ve got, so I better stick close, you big meanie. OK, that part wasn’t in the Bible story, but I’m sure some of them were feeling it.
I’m not angry at God (much), but I’m tired. I’ve said everything I know how to say. I’ve pleaded, I’ve begged, I’ve railed and I’ve cried. I don’t have any more words.
I’m watching people I love do stupid things. I’m watching people I care about go through intense trials. I’m fighting my own exhaustion and interrupted schedule and losing. My garden dies for lack of rain, and I find dead sparrows in the parking garage stairwell. Every little pain seems amplified into mortal wounding and I’m tired of talking about it. Even to God.
So, He and I stare at each other. I don’t understand what He’s thinking or doing (I never have), but I’m not going anywhere and neither is He. I’ve said it all. It’s His turn to speak, if He chooses.