Sifted...

From September through December are tough months for me. Every year as the harvest begins, I hope and I pray that this year will be different. Unfortunately it never is.

You see, it was on September 19, 2005 that we were told that the kids would be home for Christmas. As I watched the harvest that year, I was filled with joy knowing that next year my new little ones would be thrilled to see those machines moving through the fields. It was a season of joy.

October was spent preparing for our newest arrivals. It was in the middle of October that we began to wonder what was taking so long.

Early November shattered our worlds.

Christmas was a blur of tears. Not only for me, but for my family and my extended family, as those two places remained empty at the table. Christmas service was spent in the church bathroom sobbing.

*~~*~~*~~*~~*

The years go on. Each spring I think that maybe this will be the year that my children in Guatemala will see the harvest. This year especially I had hope. Hope that by harvest we would be nearly finished and that surely this Christmas would spent with our family complete.

It is not to be.

Another year of machinery harvesting the corn and beans.

Another year of tears, of questions with no answers, of fighting through anger and sorrow and sadness that seep into my very soul.

This year has been different though. This year I was the most angry at God that I have ever been. Maybe because the dream was so close, only to be snatched so cruelly away. This last month, I have been so angry at God that I questioned the reality of my faith like I never have before. The words were coming out my mouth, but the belief behind them was absent.

What good was a God who never seemed to care?

Why should I waste my time praising this God?

Was God weak?

Does God ever even listen?

The month of September was spent in church services that rocked me to my core at a time when I needed it most. A service on unanswered prayer that sent me scurrying out the door to cry in the safety of my van. A service on the power of God to answer prayer that left me questioning my questions.

And then last night.

A service given by our missionary in the Ukraine, spoken in Russian, translated by another pastor. A Ukrainian Christian, uttering the very questions and fears that assaulted my soul.

"What is God doing?"

"Does God care?"

And then this passage...

"Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift you as wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers." Luke 22:31-32

Jesus, praying for the faith of his precious child.

It took my breath away.

God, screaming at me through all the questions, through all the tears, through all the anger, "I AM HERE. GRAB HOLD OF ME. I AM HERE."

The pain is still deep. Old scars are still torn and bleeding. I am still bruised, tattered, and tearful. The anger is not gone, but swallowing up my unbelief are the precious words of God telling me, I AM HERE.

MY HEART CRIES OUT IN PRAISE OF THE GOD WHO PRAYS.