Click here to subscribe to All For Jesus, the free email list!

"For He maketh sore, and bindeth up: He woundeth, and His hands make whole." --Job 5:18
A basic assumption of psychology is that things on the outside hurt us and shape who we are on the inside. A basic assumption of Christianity is that we are created by God and are therefore beautifully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14). Things outside hurt me and, at least in some degree, I do believe they have contributed to some of the wrong, embarrassing, ugly parts of my character. If, as the Bible says, God is sovereign (Psalm 9:7,8; Colossians 1:15,16), then His divine sovereignty and will are manifested in His creatures. So I demanded of God to know how I can be called beautifully and wonderfully made. If it is His plan to conform me to His likeness, then certain events which HE has allowed to happen have conspired against that plan. From my human point of view, it seems that His grand design for me has been polluted, twisted, and flawed and He has done nothing to stop it. In short, I asked Him why a good God allows evil to happen while He sits idly by.
God honored me with an answer of sorts. He has given my soul some peace on this issue by allowing me to see a little, a very little, of the bigger picture. There is nothing to renew a person like a sense of perspective.
I had a dream in which I was in pain. This was not extraordinary, the familiar agony of a thousand hurts that I have accumulated in my life. One after another they came, like sharp arrows piercing me. And then the extraordinary happened. I saw the arrows. Large, small, poisoned, double-edged, short, long, wood, metal, stone, red-hot, icy-cold. All flying at me, one after another. No pattern, no rhyme and reason, simply at random. Sometimes ten flew at me at once, sometimes only one, but to my astonishment not a single one reached me. Not one! At once I saw the reason. God Himself was reaching out and grabbing each arrow, stopping them before they pierced me. He stretched out His hand and commanded them, so that they fell into God's hands like overripe fruit falls from the branch.
My relief, however, was short-lived when I saw what He did with the arrows after He caught them. He examined them, one by one. He looked at them oh so carefully, and some He threw away, never to be seen again. Most, however, did not suffer that fate. It was astonishing to see Him handling those arrows with exquisite care, like some master craftsman or artist, delicately handling those sharp barbs that had been destined for me. He chose one, for example, long and sharp, made of iron so hot its tip glowed white. He flicked it with a finger, he bent it slightly at one end, He caressed it lovingly in His own two hands. He then prodded me all over with His bare hand, so gently. With such care, such delicacy, His hand moved over my bruised and tender flesh. He prodded my mind, my heart, until He found the perfect spot, and He thrust the arrow home with His own hand.
I reeled from the shock and found myself dazed and weeping with pain, doubled over and sobbing my agony for all to hear. He stroked my hair lovingly and said my name in the gentlest way, but I wanted to push Him away. How dare He? What was this betrayal? Was this the God who promised to protect me? Was this the God who said He loved me? Was it better to be hurt by someone I trusted than the random careless evils of the world? How could I possibly trust in a God who would inflict this on me?!
There was a warm wetness splashing on my hand. I looked up and His eyes were filled with tears. Little one, He sighed softly. Do you think I know nothing of pain? He asked as He wiped away my tears with a nail- scarred hand.
Watch, He said. So I watched Him catching the arrows and sticking them into me and I felt them go in, an agonizing misery, every single time. My hand would tighten on His and He would squeeze back in reassurance. How grateful I was for that hand!
Watch.
I watched God, how carefully He chose the arrows, how attentively and exactingly He altered them, how carefully He wove them into me. Master craftsman, weaving His mosaic, and He knew exactly what He wanted it to look like. No hesitations, no uncertainties, no mistakes. A mosaic of hurts, but touched by Him, somehow transformed, so that there was more to them than the pain. And every now and then, He tore a piece of His garment and bound the gaping, raw wounds to stop the bleeding.
I stood back and examined His handiwork. Some of the arrows were much older than others; not nearly as sharp, some worn to a smooth lump. But they were still there and I could not keep silent.
But look at it!! There are parts of me that are unlike You. There are parts of me that I will spend my entire life trying to overcome. Even if they no longer cause such grief, must I still bear the scars? How is that beautiful? How can that be Your plan?
And a whisper in my ear: "Someday you will know fully as you are fully known" (I Corinthians 13:12)
My questions were not really answered, but there is comfort in knowing that there are answers. There is comfort in knowing that God is in control, and there is no hurt that touches me without His consent.
A sense of perspective is a great thing to have, and all too easy to lose. One day, I will see the whole work completed and I will have no more questions. For now, it is enough.