I should have been sleeping since morning comes early with a baby and a boy as my alarm clock. But in the dark late-night quiet, I was instant-messaging my friend about her life now and how it hurts.
I knew her when we were both teenagers. Back when she believed.
She knew her stuff and had convictions and prayed to God. Now she doubts and lives with the pain of choices made that can’t be undone. She reminds me of others—people who were 16 and ready to work in an orphanage in Africa or run a soup kitchen in the inner city. Now they are 30 and life has disappointed and they are divorced and questioning everything.
She reminds me of me—but reversed. Back when I doubted and struggled and wondered if it could possibly be true. Could God really exist? And if He did, did He really care about me? And if He did care, did I really want to give up my ways to follow His?
Back when I was 16 and unsure, I read and read, from all sides, and talked to God—not with requests, but with questions—demands really. What I had known my whole life seemed like a joke, a lie, anti-logic, a promise that just couldn't be kept. But the alternative--this not believing--it was dark. The future stretched bleak, the present hurting.
Finally...one more question: I asked God to be real to me, to let me experience Him, to let me touch him.
I was Thomas—wanting to touch the scars, to see for myself if the sacrifice happened and the life was renewed. And just like with Thomas, the mysterious Man-God who makes no sense to this world, opened His palms and let me touch the healed pain.
Now I live, daily touching Him, following His ways that are hard, but not disappointing, choosing to re-believe daily that He is true and that He invites me in with open hands.
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