a lament

This past week has been heavy and noisy and hard, and so I’ve been quiet. Putting my phone down and being present with my words and my thoughts and my family, I didn’t post on Instagram. But tonight, I received an email with a prompt of lament. And I wanted to share the prompt with you, as well as my own words of lament.

Here’s the prompt she gave, as Biblical laments are often acrostics:

Acknowledge the reality of suffering

Be honest about your grief, hurt, or anger

Confess any known sin (your own or others)

Declare your desires to God

Express your trust in God

Fight the urge to flee or fix

© Sarah Bourns

God, it’s too much
this reality you keep us in
hem us in
but is it with love or pain
the wings don’t feel
comforting or safe today.

I feel too sheltered
as others, too wide-open
too exposed
seemingly unprotected,
even unnoticed
even by those who occupied their land.

I am angry at the Church
who raise their voices against
paper over their faces
but cry alligator tears of prayers
for people falling from aircraft carriers.

Both so desperate for rights
for freedom,
but one will die
while the other spreads lies
one will die
while the other prays.

I am so angry that for some,
salvation is the most important prayer,
not protection or immigration papers
or an open border to run across.
They only care about the Christians;
or those who might become Christians because of their suffering.

That is not how God works,
right? That is all that I have unlearned
in deconstructing slowly,
my life one long reversal
of all I was taught;
all I bought.

I confess that years ago,
my prayers would’ve been the same,
but now they are angry;
I yell at God as I drive home.
But I think he likes it;
I think we were meant for this kind of praying.

I confess that grace is bigger,
that I don’t have it figured out,
and that grace is found in green cards
and plane rides out.
Grace is found in getting out.
Why do we try so hard to keep it in?

I confess that I’ve felt paralyzed
not because I’m unmoved,
but too moved, too swept up
in feeling and grief
to try and give this big Grace out;
I believe; God help my unbelief.

God, I desire to help,
to be this mark of grace
in these dark days.

God, I desire to give,
to put my time and money
into this nation and people.

God, I want my one flame
and water-bucket to matter
to you and to others.

God, I trust you.

Because you don’t work the way I was taught,
eye for eye, tooth for tooth,
but cheek to cheek, cloak for cloak,
giving more than I ever could.

God, I trust you.

Because you don’t seek salvation in suffering,
or at least not anymore,
because resurrection means—
that way of salvation is finished.

God, I trust you.

Because you know better than me,
and yet you also know me,
and so you don’t leave me here
to figure it out on my own.

I refuse to turn away.

I refuse to run and hide.

I refuse to let my life not be for others.

I refuse the urge to quit.

I refuse to be paralyzed.

I refuse to act like everything is okay.

I will stay—in these feelings and words

until others are safe.