The Starting Stone
Where Were You, God?
When I was a little girl, I would write small notes on ripped-up college-ruled paper. The kind that had the faded blue lines when it would sit under the sun far too long. A brown-haired, brown-eyed little girl of the 90s, I was probably around six when I began writing them. My mom had cut my hair to some sort of a long bob that I absolutely hated, and given that I was a poster child for the 90s, Iâm pretty sure I was wearing some sort of oversized sweater.
I wasnât a writer yet. I was a thinker, a dreamer, a little girl with a deep soul who carried both strong love and profound pain. I had words stirring up in me, and the only way to process my life was through them. Iâd rip up the notebook paper into palm-sized notes. The jagged edges of the paper told a story of themselves, too. I needed the notes to be a specific sizeâbig enough to carry my hard days and dreams, small enough to keep tucked away in my corduroy pants.
I wrote in the margins of my life.
For starters, Iâd always write in my unique Ikea bunk bed, after school, hiding from the fuss of life. This was my favorite spot. I was in my private world up in that wooden haven. Unbothered by the circumstances of life, dreaming of what could be, wondering when the dreams would come. Iâd been begging for the wooden bunk bed with the light oak finish for a long time, every time we visited Ikea. Something about it was magical. Did it remind me of the âcould beâ dreams? I had been eyeing the loft bunk bed with the desk underneath for as long as I could remember. Somehow my mom was able to gather enough money to bring it home.
There were other writing spaces of choice. Like the back seat of my motherâs car during our extended bumper-to-bumper traffic-jam waits. Or at the table while dinner was cooking, the smell of Venezuelan spices filling the air. Or the hallways of my motherâs second job, as I hid from the coworkers who lacked compassion for a single mother and the life we were thrown into.
There had always been something healing and unique when it came to carving out precious time for my words. Iâd run to my room, plop down on my oversized beanbag, and unpack the burdens of the dayâsecrets, hopes, and dreams.
I suppose I was allowing space for my heart to breathe. Somehow life had invited me into this space of words, breaking, and healing. As I wrote, most of the days, hope and wonder carried me through. I felt at home, at peace. Even in the hard moments of life, writing invited me into the nuance of the human heart. I could feel the weight my mother was under. The tension was so thick that it took the breath from my lungs, leaving me exasperated, gasping for oxygen.
I would try to breathe through it. But it wasnât enough. I needed some other outlet, so I would go to my room and climb that beautiful oak bed, rip up a page, and start unleashing daysâ worth of feelings. I loved giving my heart space to breathe out doubt and breathe in hope (something Iâd come to enjoy later in life in much fuller ways).
Often the thoughts would come so fast that my writing would end up being passion-filled scribbles that only I could understand. They were thoughts I kept mostly to myself, full of questions, anguish, despair, and rejection. After all, I was a little girl who was consistently told she was too much, whose words were not welcomed, whose Venezuelan accent was used as a weapon against her brown skin and brown hair. Defeat and confusion became a common theme in her little notes, but somehow, hope lived there too, though I couldnât tell you why.
The thought of a better day consumed me. I would write down even the smallest joys. I had somehow, even at such a tender age, learned to see the beauty in the broken things, the signposts of new seasons, the peace found in car rides with my mom with the windows rolled down. Iâd think to myself, Weâre going to be okay. Weâve been here before but have pressed on. We will be okay. Those notesâheld in a little wooden box in the first drawer of my dresser and also holding my heart togetherâI now know they were more like prayers.
Words have always followed me. Even though theyâve often been clumsy, theyâre always the best gift, helping me name my seasons, aches, and life. They have helped me trace life and take account of it. They were whispers to the Father before I even knew that He was listening. They carried me into hope and joy. They stored the places where I saw victory and defeat. They served as a holding place and a carrier for my thoughts and feelings. They carried me from season to season, helping me remember that not all was always hard. They also held a special place of connection with my mom. Iâd often write her letters, little notes in dark and difficult seasons: notes of apology, notes of encouragement, hopeful words, and even my grievances. Sometimes Iâd even write to myself, or to God.
Dear Mom, Iâm sorry that I had an attitude today. I know things are hard right now. I love you. You are a great mom. Love, Alexandra
Why does it have to be this way?
God, my grandmother tells me that You are real, but I donât see You. Are You real? If You are, can You please help us?
As I look back on my faith journey, I now see those notes for what they were: they were my starting stones, as I like to say. Youâve got some sort of starting stone in your journey too, you know, although yours may not look like note-prayers.
But Iâve gotten ahead of myself.
Letâs start with what I mean by stones.
The God Who Remembers
The book of 1 Samuel in the Bible holds a story that has always grabbed my attention. It takes place during a transition periodâbetween the time the people of God were led by judges and the time they were led by kings. They didnât know theyâd need a prophet to help guide this transition, but God knew.
But the book doesnât start with the prophet God provides for them. Instead, the book starts by introducing us to one of my favorite Bible friends, Hannah. Sheâs a praying woman. A woman who dedicated her life to God. She followed Him, sought Him, and loved Him. From what we read about her, she lived a life of gratitude. She was known for her commitment and conviction even while her prayers seemed to remain unanswered. She also lived a life of affliction and pain, showing us all what it looks like to hold space for the tension of both grief and wild hope. Isnât that something? That hope in God can coexist with the pain brought on by our circumstances? Even in her fallenness, Hannah felt both and carried both. But ultimately she let one lead her.
Hannah was one of Elkahanâs wives. Did you say one of multiple wives, Alex? I know. Stay with me. Weâre talking about a certain time period and cultural context in the Old Testament, thousands of years ago, when it was common for men to have more than one wife. We could camp out there for a while and explore some things, but for the sake of time, letâs hear how Hannahâs story plays out.
Peninnah, Elkahanâs other wife, had children. Our friend Hannah had been unable to conceive for years. The pain that followed her was often unbearable, so much so that the priest Eli assumed she was drunk from the utter brokenness and weeping and wailing that she brought to the Lord at the temple (1 Sam. 1:10, 12â14).
In a culture that prized having kids as the primary badge of honor for women, Hannah was shamed for not being able to bear children; she was looked down on and, most likely, even talked about as gossip spread through town about her condition. Scripture says her ârival,â the other wife, even taunted her, making fun of her inability to bring little ones into the world (1 Sam. 1:5â7). Can you hear the whispers around town? Still no kids? Goodness, God must be cursing her. I wonder what she did to make Him mad. I wonder whatâs wrong with her.
As I think about her story, I can relate. Hannah was faithful yet overlooked. She showed up and gave all that she had, yet life handed her a different set of cards. She was committed and wanted nothing more than to give God the glory. Yet there she wasâchildless, alone, and accused.
When we feel like God overlooks us, it leaves us wondering if His kindness was ever ours to have. âThis isnât fair. Does He choose favorites? Am I doing this wrong, the faith? Maybe Iâm just not believing enough.â
Scripture tells us that Hannah was weeping, heartbroken over the circumstance she found herself in (1 Sam. 1:7, 10). I have uttered prayers like that before. Prayers that only the Father can understand. Prayers so deep and personal that they were more like groans than actual words. Groans that communicate the ache and depth of my petitions, my agony. Words that can only be unpacked and unraveled by Him. I want to go back and tell Hannah that I understand her. That I, too, have felt forgotten and overlooked. Why on earth does it seem that the goodness of God picks favorites? Why does Peninnah draw an Ace every time while we Hannahs of the world always get dealt a bad hand?
In the eyes of her culture and even her priest, Hannah was a lost cause, a forgotten face in a sea of other women whose lives were full of blessing. She was invisible to everyone around her. Everyone except God. Scripture tells us that God remembered her (1 Sam. 1:19). Heâd heard her. Heâd seen her.
Iâd be silly not to stop there and let that settle into our souls. I remember the first time I read the story, those words struck a heartstring, a chord. For some reason, the fact that God had met Hannah in such a personal way absolutely overwhelmed me. âThe Lord remembered her.â
Gosh, I thought. I want to be remembered. I want to remember hope and joy. I want to know this hope and joy that meet us when weâre remembered by someone, by God.
Do I get to be remembered?
God, why donât I feel remembered?
Why do I feel the complete opposite?
Why do I feel like Youâve forgotten me?
And then I retraced Hannahâs steps. What did she do when she felt forgotten?
Deeply hurt, Hannah prayed to the Lord and wept with many tears. Making a vow, she pleaded, âLord of Armies, if you will take notice of your servantâs affliction, remember and not forget me, and give your servant a son, I will give him to the Lord all the days of his life, and his hair will never be cut.â (1 Sam. 1:10â11)
I felt Hannahâs ache right along with her. But you know what? I felt her hope, too, in the undercurrent of her prayer. Her faith became mine. She let me borrow some of it. She helped me go to God in my pain. She helped me show up to His presence with all my agony and reach out for His fatherly compassion. God helps us along that way, doesnât He? In stories like Hannahâs, He helps us see those around us press on, and it gives us the hope to keep going.
We are not forgotten. You are not forgotten. Godâs kindness and faithfulness make a way for us to experience life and love. We donât serve a forgetful God but a faithful God. One who sees and hears and remembers us. What may look like His inactivity will almost always be our inability to see His activityâto see His grace, His heart, His hand at work. This is why our gaze matters so much. What we set our eyes on becomes our source of hope and direction....
