It’s been a while since I’ve written here.
The summer, as is usual, has less of a routine, less of the predictable spaces I have carved out in my life, and more of a sense of floating at random, doing all of the fun things and traveling and seeing friends more times in three months than we might see them the rest of the school year combined.
In reality, however, I can’t blame summer for not being here. Rather, writing has felt less enjoyable, mostly because I have spent a significant part of the last few months arguing with God about how much I don’t want this space, this place anymore. I don’t want to sit in the dark places; I don’t want to know the shadowed lands of depression any longer; I don’t want to find Jesus’ compassion in this place so that I can give it to others; I don’t want to walk the often long path that is healing; I don’t want to surrender myself into the unknown. I don’t want to know Jesus’ strength in my weakness. I don’t want to understand this any longer.
I’d like to be anywhere but here, I tell myself. Just take me somewhere else, Jesus.
The other day, I was reading the story of Joseph. I grew up in church, so I have heard this story countless times before. As I read, though, one particular phrase really struck me. Joseph had been sold into slavery by his brothers and eventually wound up in Egypt. There, he gained the favor of Potiphar, “an officer of Pharaoh and captain of the guard.” 1Joseph was a successful man and became Potiphar’s personal attendant. “The Lord blessed the Egyptian’s house because of Joseph. The Lord’s blessing was on all that he owned, in his house and in his fields.”2 Joseph’s life had made a turn around and seemed to be headed in a great direction!
And then, Potiphar’s wife wanted Joseph to sleep with her. When he wouldn’t, she wrongly accused him of trying to start the affair, and Joseph was thrown into prison.
Uhhhhhhh . . .
Finally, things had been starting to look up after he had been sold into slavery, by his brothers, taking him away from everything he had ever known. Finally, Joseph had become successful and was doing well. But here he was again, tossed into a pit. His life had not, in any way, gone according to “plan.”
If I were Joseph, I would certainly have been questioning everything about my existence, my purpose, and the dreams I had believed God had given me. Were those just my imagination? Was I just making something up to make myself feel good or give myself false hope?
I’ll admit: I have had a few moments this summer when it felt like God was playing a joke on me—like maybe this entire thing called life is just one giant joke, and God is sitting up there in heaven laughing at me while I stumble and struggle through each day. I’ve struggled at large with cynicism, a deep mistrust of others and of God—that everyone’s motives are selfish; and that nothing can ever possibly change. So, what’s even the point?
And I wonder if Joseph ever struggled with those thoughts himself. Is it possible to be human, thrown in prison for something you didn’t even do, and not at least question a few things? Did he look back on the scope of his life and wonder what had gone wrong? Had he had a misstep? Had he disobeyed God? Had he heard wrong? He had just been unlucky? What was the point?
Yet, Scripture tells us something important. There, in prison, “the Lord was with Joseph.”3 In a low place; in a lonely place; in a place that he didn’t deserve; in a place that he didn’t expect; in a dark place; in an uncomfortable place; in a place where perhaps Joseph felt forgotten, unseen, and unheard; in a place of questions; in a place of uncertainty; in a place where perhaps Joseph wondered what the future could possibly hold; in a place that didn’t make sense; in a place that Joseph would never have chosen for himself.
In this place, the Lord was with Joseph, extending kindness to him and showing him favor.
Please tell me that I am not the only one who assumes that any difficult, painful, unfair, or challenging circumstance is a sign that God has forgotten me or that I have done something wrong. I have walked around this circle dozens of times over the last many years: “Just tell me what I am doing wrong, God, so that I can fix it!” Why is it so easy to assume that anything that is hard or uncomfortable is a sign that I am doing something wrong? Then I work myself in a tangle trying to fix it, fix myself, and get myself out of the circumstance.
Interestingly, Joseph wasn’t in prison because he had done anything wrong. He hadn’t disobeyed God. He hadn’t been worshiping idols. He hadn’t slept with Potiphar’s wife—in fact, he recognized that it was wrong and tried to run away. Joseph was just living his life, doing his job—and WHAM—in a moment, everything changed.
But the Lord was with Joseph. The fact that Joseph was in prison didn’t change the fact that God was with him, giving him favor, or working everything for good. The fact that Joseph was in prison didn’t mean that God had left him or forgotten him. The fact that Joseph was in prison didn’t mean that God was done with him—in fact, God was only getting started with what he was going to do through Joseph’s life. The fact that Joseph was in prison for several years did not change that God was kind, good, or faithful.
I don’t know what your “place” is—it probably isn’t a literal prison, but maybe, some days, it feels like it. From the stage on Sunday morning, we sing songs about promises—about God setting the captives free, about Him handing us the prison keys. But on Monday morning, when we aren’t seeing those promises play out the way we thought they would or WHEN we thought they would, it is so easy to grow cynical, to start questioning and doubting, to grow weary and want to quit. (Just me?) Maybe we aren’t walking free yet; maybe that day isn’t coming for many more years. But, what if we could be faithful there, in the prison? What if we could see that the Lord was with us, and choose to honor Him, even in a place we’d rather not be? What then could God do in our lives, in our stories?
Today, I am praying that God would help me to be faithful, help me to be obedient, help me to honor and trust Him—in the exact place I find myself, rather than asking for a way out, asking for anywhere but here. I am praying that God would help me to know peace and hope, even in the places that don’t make sense and don’t feel good and don’t look like He is doing anything. It’s so hard, isn’t it? I get it wrong far more often than I get it right. I grumble a lot and argue a lot and look for the easy way out a lot, a lot. And He knows. So I am also praying that God would show me His kindness, because it’s the only way I can stay in this place without giving up. The amazing thing? I know He will—even in prison.
Cati Grape 