And So I Wait

Is it idiocy in trying to find a theodicy that clearly reflects and defines

the Divine—His world and His relationship to it, a belief that clearly explains the pain,

the in-the-trenches plodding of life,

the gut-wrenching sorrows bookended . . . yes, by radiance and joy;

and boy,

if I could understand it all, I’d write a book.

We pray for divine interruptions to the messes, and our yeses we condition with accusations and excuses for failure and weakness,

ours and yours.

We pray for divine interpretations of the hard to comprehend explanations and often downright fabrications of the cosmic order, the divine function—the fodder of philosophers, theologians, and armchair pontificators.

And in the thick of it, the little light that shines would not overwhelm the darkness except for the beauty, the broken, flawed beauty that surrounds,

astounds, and shouts that there is something greater than all these losses,

greater than all this longing. And so we wait.

And so we wait when the waiting is hard;

we endure when enduring hurts.

Except for the beauty, except for the love,

suffering—hers, yours, and mine—would swallow us up.

Is it idiocy to try and find a theodicy that makes all the pieces fit just so, to make all the questions conform to what I need to know?

Maybe . . . except for the beauty, the bit of respite where hope sings.

And so I wait.

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I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in His word, I put my hope.

My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen wait for the morning,

more than watchmen wait for the morning.

~Psalm 130: 5-6~