You tell me to remember what is true.

I try. I do. When I’m drifting and can’t tease apart reality from memories, you say it over and over: “Come back to me. Remember what’s true. Come back.” On the phone, in my ear.

And I remember you did this before. And I remember I used to repeat the same words to our beloved, and bring him back the way you do for me.

Been kind of out of it the past few days and just now starting to be aware enough. The other day, I felt as though I was about to drown—heaviness in my limbs, and light dimming before my eyes, and sleep, an overwhelming need to sleep, sleep, and sleep. It was strange that for a moment the pain dulled and I thought I could float away in the numbness that followed. I forgot how numbing lithium is.

But living hurts so much too.

I find myself battling bitterness and anger often these days. Why should I be allotted a greater dose of suffering that most others around me have never tasted? When will it be enough? I forget that's not true; it's always someone's turn someday. I know I am owed nothing in this life, and some things will never be given an explanation. I know all this, and yet, and yet, I am angry.

“How long? How long, Lord? Do you listen? Are you there? If you are, how can you stand by? I thought you were good.”

Mine are not revolutionary questions. People have been asking since people have existed. Suffering is the way of the world, but is it all senseless? Perhaps the very fact that we have a sense that some things are just wrong and should not be, are a sign of some divinely given morality.

With all else swirling about me in a whirlwind of confusion and despair, I demand of God to follow through on His promises:

• To give a peace that transcends understanding (Phil. 4:7)
• To be near the broken and to save those crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18)
• To give rest to the weary (Matt. 11:28)
• To strengthen and help us (Isaiah 41:10)
• To listen when we call on Him (Isaiah 65:24)

In the end, I know nothing. And I know I know nothing, that God is greater than my comprehension, but has already made known what needs to be known. In the end, I will trust, because I know He is trustworthy.

Because He is this God:

“If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all–how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? . . . neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Romans 8:31-32, 38-39.

Here is what I know of God’s love: that it surpasses anything I can comprehend, that it is far, far more than I can imagine. That He can do abundantly more than I could ever ask or imagine. I know that Jesus does not simply know and see my darkest parts that even I perhaps fear to face, but enters into them with me. I know that He sees all of it and yet He loves me anyway.

That, I think, is the essence of the gospel. And that, I think, is what leads to, whatever it is that Christianity purports to lead to–repentance? Transformation? Salvation?–when one finally understands it truly. In all of what I have seen of life and people, I have come to the somewhat confident conclusion that this is what everyone deeply longs for: to be fully known, yet fully loved, unconditionally. And yet I think also that accepting this as a central part of the Christian faith, is incredibly, incredibly difficult. Because there is something that grates against our pride, perhaps, that we can do absolutely nothing to earn God’s love, or salvation. It feels demeaning. And we don’t like owing people things. We like to be self-sufficient. Is that also part of why we resist it? I wonder. 

What is true? This is what I know:

You carry me to the bathroom back and forth and back and forth when I am too sick to walk. You hold me when I drop dishes and look at you with fear; you tell me it’s alright. When I am too tired and scared to face the world, you care for me day after day after day after tedious day. When I've lost all capacity and yell at you, you hold me then give me space but always come back and tell me you love me but also reprimand, and I hear you because you come back again and again and again. You tell me you love me and that I don't have to do a single thing to be loved.

I just exist. You love me. That is all.

You are the only one I tell every single thing in my head to, no matter how big or small. You are the only one I am completely safe with, the only one I first cried in front of, the only one I trust utterly, utterly. You see every part of me—even the ugly, shameful parts—and love me still. Through everything, you are my steadiness, and I love you more than words, more than reason.

I don’t feel I deserve you, but I have you, and I will hold to that until the end of our days.

“You don’t have to be good to be loved,” you tell me over and over, even as you point out how I can be better, and I want to be, because I'm already accepted.

And you show me this is true.

I know God’s love through you.