always the same

Last night we saw Jill Phillips in concert.

For you to understand the rest of the post, you'll need to know something almost no one knows about me: I absolutely adore Jill Phillips. I think she might be my favorite singer, and considering how much I love music, that says a lot. One album in particular lived in the CD player in my car for at least two years, and had it not been scratched, it might have never left. Her music is honest and humble, and many of the ideas she sings about are things that I wrestle with constantly... I LOVE Jill.

So, needless to say, I've been super excited about this concert, and it lived up to every one of my expectations. But, from the moment she hit the first note, I had to fight back tears. I'm pretty good at ignoring God when I'm hurting, but the familiarity of her voice and the intimacy of her lyrics pulled me back to the present. The music was too embedded in my soul to be ignored.

For the past couple of weeks, I've been dealing with lots of drama... primarily in the form of CPS reports. As a teacher, I've reported more families than I can remember over the past eight years. It's always sad, but it comes with the territory, particularly when teaching younger kids because they have no filter. If something weird is going on at home, they talk about it. Most often, everything turns out to be ok. Unfortunately, this situation has completely blown up, and once again I've been faced with difficult questions about the character of God.

I don't understand why God chooses to put children in that sort of situation, particularly when there are so many perfectly fit couples who desperately want children that he doesn't allow them to have. There are plenty of other hard questions about God that I'll never have an answer to, but working with children and dealing with infertility, that one seems to come up a lot for me. Why them? Why not us? My response tends to be distance... to pull away from this God I don't understand, this God who would rather let children be beaten than allow us to parent... and then I start to doubt the sovereignty and goodness of his plan.

That's where I've been lately. Distant. But last night, sitting in a very nondescript chair in a tiny, strip mall church, I felt God's presence in a way I haven't in quite awhile. The hope I asked for on Thursday night was there, and though I tried to push it away, by the time Jill started singing her last song, tears were rolling down my cheeks. It was an old song, my very favorite: I Am... all about the character of God.

I don't understand God's plan for us, and I certainly don't understand God's plan for the child I've anguished over for the past few weeks, but as he reminded me last night, I know he hasn't changed. He's still here with me, knows all my deepest doubts and fears, and still loves me just the same as he always has. He's still wise, and he's still in control, even when the situation seems completely abysmal.

I'm not sure I'm ready to totally let go of my doubt and allow him to comfort me in my pain. I can't reconcile the idea that the comfort would come from the one who's allowing the heartache, but at least I remember that he'll be there when I finally can.