Searched and known

“you have searched me and you know me” (Psalm 139, verse 1)

How do you read that?

There are so many ways.

Do you take comfort in being searched, known, understood?

Do you worry what may be found, that of which you are not aware?

Do you fear that which you strive to keep hidden will be dragged blinking and shame-faced into the light?

Do you wonder at the motives?

Do you submit or seek escape?

Do you fight or fly?

I’m not sure how I understand this at present. The Psalm from which that handful of words is taken is one of the more famous ones, so often the source of ‘inspirational’ posters and social media memes, black print on blue sky telling us it will all be alright.

I should find it comforting.

But do I?

It’s hard to trust my instincts. It’s hard enough as one born in sin. It’s harder still if I’m in the grip of a depressive episode. Serotonin and its chemical companions are all over the place. Maybe there’s other stuff going on too. If there’s medication, what does that add to the mix?

In those circumstances, what can I trust? Thoughts rushing, emotions whirring, stomach churning, head pounding.

What’s God saying? He knows me.

Does He? Does He know this?

Or how about this, from elsewhere in that same Psalm:

“you created my inmost being;

you knit me together 

in my mother’s womb.”  (verse 13)

That helps, doesn’t it?

He made me … with chronic illness and tendency to depression.

Thank you.

He knit you together … wherever you find yourself born, with whatever you have to carry.

Fine if you’re one the minority. If not … how do you read it?

I don’t know.

“where can I flee from your presence” (verse 7)

Is he trying to escape?

No, but it could feel like it. He’s trying to say that wherever he happens to be, God is with him.

Which sounds lovely but could be threatening.

The creator, the one who knit me together … with this … is with me?

One day I’ll know even as I’m known, be with Him even as He is with me.

Will the puzzle resolve, the loose ends tie-up or will it be forgotten?

A risen Jesus still bore the scars, so I suspect the former.

So I wait.

Some days fretfully, some days patiently.

Always expectantly.

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