MAY 2
Psalm 88:13, “But I, O Lord, cry to you; in the morning my prayer comes before you.”
She was in hospice, and not many weeks from the end. I came to visit, and there she sat in her recliner—not comfortably. For her arm and leg were swollen, painfully so, and it was hard to see her like that. We both knew her time was short. We talked quietly—about how she was doing, about suffering, and about how God sometimes seems so close and sometimes so far.
Within reach of her chair was a hand-sized, round plaque. Philippians 4:13 was inscribed on it: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” She says that when she was calm and trusting, she would hold the plaque in her hand, like a steadying weight—something solid to cling to. But when pain or doubt crept in—when trust gave way to frustration—she’d quietly put it back into the cupholder and grumble a bit.
This psalm reminds me of her experience—the psalm that offers little to encourage. It’s not neat. It’s not tidy. It doesn’t wrap up with hope or healing. Instead, the psalmist cries out: “I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life draws near to death… Why, Lord, do you reject me and hide your face from me?” (Psalm 88:3, 14). He speaks into the silence. No answers. No resolution. Just questions.
That’s the space she was in—trusting, yet struggling. Trusting, but wounded. Like the psalmist, she believed in God. She called out to Him. But she didn’t pretend things were okay. Her prayers were not polished. They were real. Even when she tucked the plaque away, she never threw it out. That verse—”I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me”—was still close at hand. She wasn’t denying her faith in Jesus. She was wrestling with it. And in that wrestling, she joined a long line of saints—from David to Job to Paul—who knew what it meant to cry out and wait in the dark.
Not every story ends with healing. Not every psalm ends with praise. But even Psalm 88 begins with this: “Lord, you are the God who saves me; day and night I cry out to you.” Sometimes that’s the most powerful testimony of all—not the victory, but the perseverance. The clinging. The crying out and waiting—even when the answers don’t come.
“For faith is a constant struggle. It wrestles with doubt, despair, and death.” — Martin Luther
Application questions: This psalm is filled with honest questions and deep pain. How does it comfort or challenge you to know that the Bible includes such things? In times of suffering, do you find yourself holding onto truth like Philippians 4:13—or setting it aside for a while? What helps you return to trust when you’ve been wrestling with God?
LookingtoJesus 