Do Your Worst

A couple weeks ago I tweeted (yup, tweeted), "Sometimes I wonder what in the world God thinks I'm made of.  Today is one of those days."  "Today is one of those days..." because for the past four months there has been helping after helping of grief, fear, loss, recovery; hope, more grief, more fear, more loss; less hope, confusion, surprises (the not awesome kind) - all simply wrapped up in the not so simple word, heartache.  

"Hope deferred makes the heart sick..."

With blow after blow, I find myself asking God pretty frequently these days, "Seriously, what do You think I'm made of?!"  Whether He's incited it or allowed it, this season has unleashed the perfect storm of familial, spiritual and personal struggles that have shaken the core of my strength.  I want to be mad at Him for all of this, but deep down I know He is not the culprit.   I know that my frustration is misplaced; that I'm confused, I'm afraid, I don't have answers, I don't know what the future or even the next few days will look like, and for the girl who always believes redemption is possible, I've been living through days that feel way more hopeless than hopeful.  Days that are just... deflating.  If hope were a balloon, it would be as a if someone poked the tiniest hole in an unsearchable place so that slowly, squeakishly, out would leak the substance from within.  So, honestly?  Yeah - sometimes hope fades, life feels meaningless, and I feel empty - deflated.  The citadel of my life is attacked at it's most secure posts, and I'm left wondering what will become of me without their strength.  

My name, "Tara," means tower of strength, or strength of character.  But some days, I'm not feeling so strong, and I certainly don't feel like I'm showing much character.  On the inside I'm just broken - "dashed to pieces," as Job would say, and I don't understand the good of taking an incredibly melancholy, introverted girl and crushing the small shred of positivity within her.  In a word, I feel defeated.  

Done.  

Undone.  

I want to be courageous.  I want to honor Jesus.  I want to make Him look good - really good - through all of this.  But there are days when everything within me is weak, so so weak, and I am failing.  I feel like the worst of me has been exposed.  Like I'm just a cowarding little girl who needs her mom to be stronger than her, who needs people to stay and not go, who's been kidding herself all along to believe that good really can come of all this mess.

Then today, after blow number "I stopped counting a long time ago," I asked God again, "Seriously!?  What do You think I'm made of?"

His response?


"My Tara, I thought you should know by now.  

You are made of ME."

Is it possible?


With every shattering heartache of a blow, could God be cracking away at His own image, wrapped up in this flesh and bones?  

Could He love me so much?

That much?

I know that all of the things my family is going through are not about me.  I'm selfish sometimes, but not that selfish - I get it, it's not all about me.  But in the meantime of it all, could God really - still - be so concerned with me, His little Tara, that He would keep throwing punches to let me find out what I am made of?  And that what I'm made of... is Him?

If I am made of Him, and if each blow cracks away the layers of me that are hiding Him, then the most terrifying, sincere prayer I can pray tonight is this: Do Your worst, Lord.  Do Your worst.  Somehow in all of this mess, let the pieces of me become pieces of You.  Let this tower of strength be crumbled to find You still remain amidst the rubble.  

God, this season is dark and ugly.  But You, You are lovely - and I love You.

Now, merciful Savior, do Your worst, and make me lovely too.

Lovely... like You.