I. The Wrestling

“But Jacob stayed behind by himself, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak.” ‭‭— Gen. ‭32:24 ‭MSG‬‬

The image looking back at me from the mirror was not my typical one. My newly dyed ombré hair was pulled up high and tight into a ponytail; I could see the grey ends sticking out behind one shoulder. I was wearing a slightly emo, black fitted dress shirt. My mouth was pinched shut, and dark circles loomed under my eyes. There was a dull, hard expression in my gaze, and the overall look as I stared back at myself gave a rather specific impression.

"You could be a bitch."

The sentence formed itself in my mind unbidden. It wasn’t an accusation, or even a condemnation. It was a suggestion. I felt the iciness of it claw its way up out of a cold, dark space in my heart; a defensive thought that wanted to snuff out any kindness or empathy left in me. My mirrored image confirmed it: I looked like I could definitely pull off that B-word.

To be honest, it was tempting. For a second I really wanted to be a terrible person, to lock my heart away and be someone who couldn’t care less about the feelings of others, and only seek to please myself. To be my own priority, and hang everyone else—just cut them out of my life, and tell them exactly why and what I think of them. To be as mean and cruel as I could possibly be (and boy, I could be). Make phone calls or write letters and let them know what I truly felt, not just the things that were right or acceptable like I always did. I wanted—for a moment—to not be myself; to be ugly and poisonous, even if only to keep my broken heart safe.

It’d been a year of wrestling with God, wrestling with people, and wrestling with myself. But mostly wrestling with God. There were tough questions I needed answers for, and I wasn’t getting any. There were deeply scarring experiences from people that had left me feeling so busted inside that all I could do was take one step at a time; gingerly, hoping I wouldn’t fall through the ice and drown in my own grief and confusion. Even still, I spent months with my face barely breaking the surface of all my pain and questions to catch a breath, and God felt very, very unkind. I was angry with Him, though I cried to Him, and I asked “why” of Him a lot. Many times I felt like God had my thrashing, scrabbling arms and legs pinned, and He was pushing me face into the ground, crushing me; my sweat and tears mingling with bruises and blood as I moaned and struggled beneath the weight of what I thought to be Him.

I’ve never been able to understand why when tragedy strikes, some Christians’ first (or eventual) response is to blame God and walk away from Him; as though He were refundable for not serving them the way they expected Him to. I’ve inwardly scoffed at the notion that being a Christian insulates us from a wicked world out to destroy us. Part of me still does. It’s always seemed kind of stupid to me that one would blame God for the way people have treated them. It’s not God’s fault people can be evil. It’s people’s fault. God Himself promised we would have tribulation in this world. However He also promised us wisdom and discernment if we seek Him. It was this last promise that caused my wrestling.

See, it’s one thing to be blindsided by someone’s wickedness or a tragedy. It is completely another to strive to be obedient in following in Christ’s footsteps, and discover despite your best efforts, you get deceived, used, and abused. To come face to face with the fact that you are not as wise as you thought, or as discerning as you believed, or that God didn’t give you a head’s up earlier of. The sudden realisation that God has seemingly hung you out to dry is like hitting a brick wall at 100mph. So while others may question God by saying, “if you’re so good, why was this person wicked towards me?” I, on the other hand, was questioning, “If you’re so good, why didn’t you show me the person's wickedness?” I felt my blindness was my problem, and I wondered why God hadn’t helped me see. It’s not my fault people are bad, but I sure as heck believed it was my fault for not recognising it, and it felt like God had let me down. Where was the wisdom You promised me? Where was Your insight and discernment when my compassion was being used for a dirty dishrag and my selfless heart was being chewed and used up? Am I that naive and stupid?

So you see why I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror dressed in black wishing I could turn into an ugly witch who could spit poison. If my softness toward God meant I could be exploited by hard-hearted people, I would much rather protect my heart by being cruel to everyone. Anything was better than the shame of being fresh meat for predators. I was wrestling with the way God had made me; cursing the fact I had this heart that longed to chase down every lost sheep and love them into Christ. I detested the way I strived to find the best in others, and loathed how self-sacrifice came so naturally to me. I didn’t want to be fooled again by my “good heart”. Compassion was as blinding as infatuation, and empathy could fool you into believing a wolf was a lamb. I regretted the love God had seemingly allowed me to waste. 

But under all the regret, self-doubt, and frustration with God, self and people was a singular, deep, wounded question: 

“If God loves me, why did He let me fail?”

Indeed, if love covers a multitude of sins and truth sets people free, how come all my love and truth had apparently failed? This question clouded my vision to the point where hope seemed a fruitless endeavour. If God could love me and YET, let me fail, why hope? If I couldn’t trust God’s love to give me the wisdom and discernment and the truth about my life and the lives of others that I so desperately needed; if He was going to let me fall, how could He love me? Does love let people fail? 

Recently I was struck afresh by the first lines of the popular song, “Oceans”, which I have heard a million times:

You call me out upon the waters / the great unknown / where feet may fail

“Where feet may fail… Where feet may fail…” The phrase echoed and bounced around in my mind. Could God call us to a place where we will fail? While I don’t believe God tempts us with evil or sets us up to fall, what if the trials we experience are a result of us walking out to where God has called us to be? Are there lessons along this road where, though it may come to a dead end, I’ll be stronger (and perhaps wiser) for? I wrestled too, with this tension of God being for us and not against us, but also, living in a world where God can use everything for our good and His purpose. 

Could it be I was meant to both love people AND be hurt by them? Could it be I was called out upon the waters of trial and sorrow for my good? Could my failure simply be a place for God’s strength to come through? Was I fighting against something that could be teaching me instead? The frenzied questioning, wrestling, lack of sleep, pining for answers; what if I submitted to—made peace with—my failure, and surrendered that failure to Christ? Not to try and insulate myself from future hurts, but to stay soft and discerning of God’s voice, even while walking the paths my feet had failed me on. What if the failure of my feet had no bearing on God’s good path for me?

For some unknown reason, God has given me a connection with a songwriting artist whose music ministers to my heart on a very vulnerable level. Occasionally they’ll send me a text with something they’re working on, or I’ll design a lyric poster for them. Randomly, I got a text from them a few weeks ago sharing one of their favourite poems with me.

“It came into my mind that you might appreciate it if you have never read it before,” they said.

It was called “The Man Watching” by Maria Rilke, and I felt something stir deep within me as I read the verses:

What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights with us is so great!  
If only we would let ourselves be dominated 
as things do by some immense storm, 
we would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win it’s with small things, 
and the triumph itself makes us small.  
What is extraordinary and eternal 
does not want to be bent by us.  

I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: 
when the wrestlers’ sinews 
grew long like metal strings, 
he felt them under his fingers 
like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel 
(who often simply declined the fight) 
went away proud and strengthened 
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.  
Winning does not tempt that man.  
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, 
by constantly greater beings.

Submission to something greater… Submitting to the wrestle… As I read, an image sprang to mind of a tree choosing not to fight against the storms and the wind and the rain; how it stays rooted to its source, and allows itself to sway and be bent and twisted by the howling winds, yet at the end of it all, remains standing. Scarred, bruised, but alive… still standing. That line, “This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater beings”. Isn’t to grow my greatest passion? Don’t I want to become that tree planted by the living waters, who bears fruit in season and whose leaves never dry up? Yet the tree only grows by being defeated—ever surrendered to the overwhelming greatness of God that is always present, no matter the trial it faces. 

My thoughts return to the story of Jacob as he wrestled with the Angel of God. How desperate he must have been for answers, for mercy, for the assurance that something good was in store for him; something to hope for. What were the thoughts going through his mind as he locked arms with the Almighty, I wonder? His request leads me to believe that they were much the same as my own thoughts: Please. Bless me. Be kind to me. Don’t treat me as I deserve.

I think of how God answered Jacob; in His extreme kindness (yes, I must tell myself: God is still kind), God did bless Jacob. He gave him what he asked for. Yet despite receiving the blessing he wrestled God for all night long, the only thought in his mind come morning was, “I have seen God, and lived.” It would seem that seeing God’s face was enough to end the wrestling. It’s not so much about seeing the blessing I think I need, but rather seeing the face of kindness shining upon me.

Maybe if I choose to look upon God’s face, instead of burying my face in the fight, His kindness will overwhelm me. Perhaps that is the true wrestle: fighting to see the goodness of God in all things. I’m grateful that God, being Divine, graciously allows me to humanly strive with Him; that I and my questions are not too much for His grace, and that even in the wrestling, His fingers caress my soul. He feels my struggles, and He tells me they are not wasted.

For out of them, He makes music.