i hate the valley.

i hate the valley.
can i say that?
i hate it.
i hate feeling hopeless.
i hate feeling aimless.
and it all seems so unfair.
God sits on his mountain.
and i sit in the valley, and all i breathe is dust, and all i taste is dust, and all i see is dust.
i am dust.
oh how tempted i am to shake my fist at the mountain and declare God to be unjust.
to tell him he doesn’t understand my pain.
that he’s mean.
unkind.
impersonal.
how far from the truth that is.
yes, he sits on the mountain, but he had to walk through the valley to get there.
he once sat in dust, as i am sitting now.
he once wept, as i am weeping now.
he once bled, as i am bleeding now.
our God is a God of empathy.
he is a God of compassion.
he is a God of passion.
he is a God of sorrow.
he understands pain.
he understands disappointment.
he understands fear.
but he is not afraid.
he is not afraid of our struggle.
he is not afraid of our mess.
he is not afraid of honesty.
he is not afraid to be seen next to me when i am bloody and bruised.
he is not afraid of my trials.
he is not afraid of my tears.
he is not afraid of my weakness.
he is not afraid of my insecurity.
he is not afraid of my disappointment.
he is not afraid of my fear.
he is not afraid of my dependency but rejoices in it.
he is not afraid to be a father to the broken, to the hurting, to the bleeding.
and that is all of us.
and if i stop looking up to the mountain and cursing its height, i find something incredible.
he is not on the mountain.
he is here with me.
sitting in the dust, weeping.
weeping.
with me.
and that is enough.

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