Crowned with Lovingkindness

Though the fig tree should not blossom,
nor fruit be on the vines,
the produce of the olive fail
and the fields yield no food,
the flock be cut off from the fold
and there be no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord;
I will take joy in the God of my salvation.
God, the Lord, is my strength;
He makes my feet like the deer’s;
He makes me tread on my high places.

Habakkuk 3:17-19, ESV

Reading these words is like striking the keys of a piano; the major and the minor notes resound their chords, the black and white expressing their joy and sorrow in one blended melody of thankfulness without fruitfulness.

This is a thought that has borne weight on my heart for over seven years now; a question that has elbowed its way through my mind, trying to get through, but always getting pushed back because I do not want to answer it. How do we respond to God when he seems absent?

The contrast of life’s black and white keys makes me ponder. To feel barren while the world around you blossoms, and yet, somehow, to begin to see it all with new eyes. I role through these thoughts like fingers rolling over a piano; I can hear the notes in my head. The world outside is blossoming with spring, and I am holding out in faith while waiting to see fruit in my own. Yet I will rejoice. I watch as others abound, as others reap, while I still sow down and wait. Am I lost? Have I done something wrong? Has God forgotten me? Why does he bless others and pass me by? I will take joy in the God of my salvation.

The melody keeps playing. The question needs to be answered. Thankfulness without fruitfulness. How do we do it? How can we pass through life’s struggles and not let them taint the way we see God, and the way we see ourselves?

Our perception of struggle must change — the lens through which we see the events in our lives must be transformed. There is something deeper, something richer than pain; an  untouchable, unshakable faith that comes when we realize that the events of life don’t matter. The fruit, or lack thereof, really means nothing. It doesn’t change who God is, but sometimes, it changes who you are. It can make you bitter, or it can make you better.

Pain is a metamorphosis, a cocoon of transformation, and we should not shrink back from it.

The last seven years of my life have been one long and wild adventure, in which I have walked an often lonely and barren path. It transformed me, and is reshaping me still. I think about it now — how this last year brought me an onslaught of painful challenges. At the beginning of the year I launched a new business. I shot out the gate like a wild horse bound to win the finish line. I pressed and I sowed, I prayed, and did not get very far. I sat, wondered, pondered, remembered. We stake too much on fruitfulness, and value too little the process of getting there; the growth that gets us to fruition.

Even still, it is hard to hold on, hard to keep pressing forward when the ground is tough and barren. Even still, after all this time, my heart still struggles. I found myself asking the question afresh this last week, “God, have you forgotten me?” Are you with me? Are you for me?

When others abound quickly with their business, when others are blessed with new babies; my empty womb cries out, and my heart sinks into my stomach. Why not me? God, have you passed me by? Why do you open the womb for others, but not for us? These are aching questions. I went back to the Word, and read over these words. I let the painful black and white notes wash over my soul — major, minor, major, minor — and let them blend into a beautiful song.

Though the fig tree should not blossom,
nor fruit be on the vines,
the produce of the olive fail
and the fields yield no food,
the flock be cut off from the fold
and there be no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord;
I will take joy in the God of my salvation.
God, the Lord, is my strength;
He makes my feet like the deer’s;
He makes me tread on my high places.
Habakkuk 3:17-19, ESV

It makes me cry, every time. Like a song, washing over me, stirring in my heart the truth, the answer. Yet. Yet I will rejoice. I will take joy. The Lord is my strength, and he makes me strong and abound where it is not easy to do so.

Bless the Lord, O my soul…who redeems your life from destruction,
who crowns you with lovingkindness and tender mercies.
Psalm 103:2&4

I have been meditating on this verse all month long, and when my heart sunk just a few days ago, and those questions clouded my thoughts, I knew why I’d been meditating on that verse in the previous weeks; it was for now, in this moment, when my heart was buckling under the weight of an unbearable pain. A reminder that thankfulness in the fruitlessness is what helps us push through the sowing, the watering, the waiting, until the pain of the season reaps with joy. For reaping always comes.

I am not forgotten; I cannot be. He has crowned me with his lovingkindness, and that crown sits like the cherry on top, sitting over all the misery and pain of the past, and even the present, saying that I am his, and I am bought with a price. I am so thankful for all that God has done, and all that he is doing. I am so thankful for the barrenness in my life that has taught me to hang on to truth, even when it hurts, and for how it has shown me the depth, height, and breadth of God’s love. I am so thankful for how the tides have turned in my business this month, for seeing God’s faithfulness in the fruition. But most of all, for the lesson of believing God wanted to prosper me, even before I saw it.

We went through fire and through water:
but you brought us out into a wealthy place.
Psalm 66:12