40 I waited patiently for the Lord;
he inclined to me and heard my cry.
2 He drew me up from the pit of destruction,
out of the miry bog,
and set my feet upon a rock,
making my steps secure.
3 He put a new song in my mouth,
a song of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear,
and put their trust in the Lord.
I recently encountered this Psalm in a sermon by John Piper titled “What to Do When Your Spirits Sink”. The title resonated with me so I decided to listen. As he read each line, tears started to swell.
“I waited patiently for the Lord;
he inclined to me and heard my cry.”
I’ve been wrestling with my faith since graduating in 2021. Growing up, my faith felt like a solid ground, and I navigated life knowing my purpose. I was raised under Christian parents, but university was where I made it my own. I found a newfound joy in God. I trusted fully in His providence. When my grades were poor or when plans fell apart, I genuinely believed such events to be part of something larger.
Anxiety was the one emotion I just couldn’t understand. I watched my friends stress over grades and internships wondering why. We believe in the same God, don’t we? He has a perfect plan for each of us, one which we can find rest and rejoice in. What is there to fear? Yet I understand now that what I mistook for genuine faith was laced with a hidden desire to be lazy, ignorant, and blissful.
After graduating, reality hit. Friends who had taken their studies more seriously, whose lives had been marked by a persistent anxiety that I secretly judged, began stepping into the lives I’d thought were waiting for me. Good careers, internships, graduate school acceptances. I watched, filled with shame and jealousy. What was I doing all this time? What about my success, God? I trusted you, sacrificed for you. I served your church and your people. Why do I feel so behind, so lost, like a ship swaying at sea?
If the purpose of our lives is to bring You glory, why am I so unhappy now, having lived for you?
Embittered, what followed was a slow withdrawal from church, from community, from accountability. From the light. I told myself I was pursuing truth. I devoured theology, philosophy, psychology, literature, watching religious debates late into the night. I wanted to find purpose and meaning outside of the Bible. In doing so, I became the god of my own life.
Left unchecked, I made a mistake which I still hesitate to call a “mistake”. I was conscious of my actions and did them anyways. That part has continued to stay with me. I fractured relationships and watched friendships recede. The shame and guilt weighed me down and continues to haunt me often. I’m still self-conscious about sharing anything positive about myself; it feels insensitive to the people I’ve hurt. And anxiety, the very emotion I couldn’t understand, has since taken a strong hold of me.
Yet I write this now filled with an improbable gratitude for everything, not despite this arduous season, but because of it. It has exposed my old ways. It has replaced certainty with honest reflection, humbling me to the point of absolute dependence on God.
“He drew me up from the pit of destruction,
out of the miry bog,
and set my feet upon a rock,
making my steps secure.“
I still don’t know what to make of the trust I had in God back then. Was it not the very childlike faith that is praised in the Bible? How can I surrender without being too passive? I understand that we are called to bring glory to God in all that we do, that faith is not an exemption from effort. But I still don’t know how to balance those things. On one hand I find this extremely frustrating. On the other, I am learning to make peace with not knowing. At the very least, the assurance I have in Christ feels much like I am standing on a firm foundation, my steps secure, my destination set.
“He put a new song in my mouth,
a song of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear,
and put their trust in the Lord.”
Life is suffering. It is filled with endless waiting and insatiable longing. Like the Psalm indicates, I think it is a never-ending cycle of bearing our cross while resting in the assurance of what has already been done through Christ. And what has been done is, I keep finding, the most beautiful thing I have encountered, more than any prose, painting or film.
I’m reminded of the testimony I used to share in college. I was so sure of God’s presence in my life back then. I’m not quite there yet, but I find comfort in the words I used to say: that God has the power to redeem all things, to turn the worst parts of us into something beautiful, for His glory.
marginalia 