I once had a particularly rough semester in college. A few close high school friends who attended different colleges up and down the East coast and Midwest were having particularly rough semesters, too. I can't recall the particulars of our struggles, whether they were over boys and breakups, or managing classes and part-time jobs, but I do remember one friend's comment in a group email:
Collectively it seems that we are not having a mountaintop experience right now.
Roger, that.
This "currently not on a mountaintop" status happens to be true for myself and some friends right now. The particulars are weightier, though. There's a cancer diagnosis, kids who have gone off the rails, job struggles, a loved one battling an addiction. There's sleepless nights, heart palpitations, a bout of depression. We still do the things that need to be done — work, laundry, putting dinner on the table — but, in our own ways, we're all struggling.
I told my dearest friend that I might be having a midlife crisis. She texted back, "Did you buy a Harley?"
I haven't. But I have contemplated quitting my job, buying a farm, and raising chickens, so there's that.
With this as the backdrop of my current mental state, let me dial you into a day last week when I was especially low, the kind of low when you vaguely discern in your mind's eye that you're not your best self, but not only do you lack the ability to pull yourself up, you can't discern which way is up, as if you were rolled by a wave in the ocean and, disoriented, you're sinking deeper underwater instead of rising to the surface. The kind of low when you're wounded and feel misunderstood, when your mistakes and flaws seem like the sum tally of who you are, when hope has turned to dust.
That day I had cried myself dry while sitting my my parked car in the garage, away from family. After wiping my eyes and checking my face, I went inside and saw a small package addressed to me alongside the day's mail that my husband had set on the counter. It was from a sweet friend who lives hundreds of miles away, a friend I haven't talked to in months. Inside was an artwork print and a handwritten note.
Her note read:
This flower is an anemone. It grows on the banks on the Sea of Galilee. It was drawn by someone in our church and given to mothers on Mother's Day to remind us of El Roi, the God who sees me. Robin, may you feel God's presence and know El Roi sees you. He sees you in your ups and downs of daily life. He sees your faithfulness in the mundane. He sees the things weighing heavy on your heart. He sees the tears you cry behind closed doors. He sees your victories and defeats. He sees all of you. May you be reminded of His good deeds from the past so that you can continue to have hope in the future.
I'm surprised I had tears left, yet new ones formed in my eyes.
If you're not familiar with the reference, the name El Roi appears in Genesis 16 when a woman named Hagar encountered God at her lowest point. After being mistreated and running away, Hagar was found by God near a spring in the desert and given direction. We're told later in the chapter that Hagar gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: "You are the God who sees me. I have now seen the One who sees me."
When I think of the billions of people who have walked this earth, from antiquity to now, my mind can't fathom the weight of all our stories. How many tears have been shed on this earth? How many times has a person found themselves in a desert of the soul, mistreated and running away? How many have grappled with bitter disappointments when their lives have included chapters of unimaginable heartbreak? How many have looked over wreckage and wondered if it could ever be redeemed? This life is hard.
But El Roi. But God sees. But God sees me.
God saw it fit to prompt someone to mail a package two or three weeks after Mother's Day so it would arrive at the exact moment when her far-away friend, the friend who just had been crying in her car in the garage, needed a reminder that her life was not beyond the notice of God.
His arm is not too short to reach me. His hand is not too weak to steady me. His power is not too limited to save. His goodness has not dried up. I belong to a God who meets me in the basement. This is a God who walks me through the valley of the shadow of death. I type these truths not necessarily because I currently feel them, but because I need to remind myself of them.
If you are part of the collective group of people who currently are not living mountaintop experiences, you're not alone in the valley. The Lord will meet us in the basement. He sees us exactly where we are.
