When it is Not “Well with my Soul”
Yesterday we sat in squad wide worship and sang “It is Well with my Soul.” I found myself singing along with the familiar lyrics:
“When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul“
But as the song went on, I got to thinking. What if it not well with my soul? And what does that even mean? So, I did a little research on the song and learned that it was written not in times of celebration or in the absence of trials, but rather in a time when the author was pouring out his anguish and despair to God. And to be honest, that is the season, I, too, find myself in.
The past couple of weeks, we have worked with children in slums and women both currently in and rescued from human trafficking. Both horribly heavy. Both way harder than I could have ever expected. Don’t get me wrong, going into the world race I knew these would both be things I saw. But thinking about it on a different continent and living in that reality everyday are two completely different things. I tried to prepare myself for the things I would see. I read books. I read blogs from past racers. I postured my heart in a way that would love others well and grieve the hardships that others faced, but none of that truly prepared me for the depravity and heartbreak I would face.
Last week we went to a slum and I was tasked with going out and inviting children to our VBS type session we would have in a building located in the slum. I began walking through the streets and slowly began to experience poverty as I never had before. Everything was filthy. Children were eating out of the trash that lined the dirt paths. Carcasses of animals laid rotting in random heaps on the ground. No one wore shoes, and three small boys were playing in the water that was a mix of trash, human waste and animal remains. It was overwhelming. About five minutes into my walk, a small girl came up to me holding her little sister. She looked up at me and gestured for me to take the small child in my arms. I did. Her name was Angeline and she must have been about three years old. I cradled her in my arms and looked down at her big brown eyes that stared expectantly back at me. My eyes wondered down her body where I saw the bumps and scabs that lined her skin. Her hair was shaved down and I could see bugs clinging to the small pieces of hair that remained. Tears filled my eyes as I realized that this was real life for this precious child. This wasn’t a blog post. It wasn’t a sad picture. It wasn’t some charity that I could send ten dollars to and make myself feel better. Nope. This was real life and there was not a single thing that I could do to change this reality for her. All I could do was pour my love into her. I could smile at her and sing over her like I used to love as a child. I could tell her how much she was loved by God, even when it didn’t seem that way, even when the things that surrounded her seemed so incredibly unfair and cruel. I could pray over her and her life and trust that God will redeem this story, too. I could and still can trust that God had a plan far greater than mine, and trust that it is a good plan, even when it doesn’t feel well with my soul.
And then there are the dance bars. Walking past them is hard. Walking into them is heavy. Talking to the women who are trapped there is impossible. These women, they have names and families. Some of them have husbands and children. But every single one of them has a story. A story of how they got to that place, who sold them into sex trafficking, or why it was the only way they could support their children or family. Looking into the eyes of the women who work there is draining. The heartache and sadness and oppression is impossible to explain. So much of it is like what you read about in books or magazines or online articles, but so much of it is completely different. These women aren’t dressed scandalously in skimpy lingerie or short dresses with high heels. These women are wearing jeans and t-shirts, extremely similar to what I wore around my college campus. Their faces aren’t caked in make-up and they aren’t taking shots of whiskey like in the movies. They are just like you. Just like me. Except they are trapped in this horrible reality, that, again, I cannot do anything about. I could sit with them and listen to their stories. I could pray over them and tell them how much God loves them even when it doesn’t feel like it. I could seek out resources and programs to help them, but at the end of the day, I cannot save them. I could pray over them and their lives and trust that God will redeem this story, too. I could and still can trust that God has a plan far greater than mine, and trust that it is a good plan, even when it doesn’t feel well with my soul.
So, now I find myself singing again:
“When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul“
It is not a declaration that everything is ok. In fact, it is saying that everything is far from ok, but God is still in control. It is a hope that someday we will have the hard questions answered.
