I have struggled with Jesus quite a lot the last few weeks. He has my heart, and he is the most beautiful, glorious vision in my life … and yet we have struggled.

I have hard questions for him. Questions that plague my heart and soul. Questions that disrupt my days. Questions my mind can’t answer.

My mind swims and swims, searching for answers, looking for sense, wanting to know God’s grace and truth in places that seem wanting.

Where are you here? I ask. Where were you there?

I go round and round with him on this. I keep following the trail of questions. I notice almost imperceptible answers, and I follow them, too.

At times, I think I have understood, and so I follow the trail back to the source of my question and begin the path again, seeing if the answer has come clear. But it still eludes me.

As much joy and life as I carry with me most days, there is a quadrant of my heart that suffers and grieves and weeps before Jesus, unable to know his heart toward me in these questions that I ask.

I’ve been weary. I’ve felt sad.

This morning, I curled on the couch with my Bible to spend time with him. I opened to the psalms and read about his love. It is a love that never ends, I read. A love that never ends.

And yet in these places of questions I hold, I have questioned his love.

My mind started the litany of questions and possible answers again. I started to review them over and over again. And I felt weary.

Eventually, I stopped.

I stopped talking and asking and positing and just laid my head against him. We were sitting on the beach, at the crest of the shoreline, shoes off, facing the waves. He sat on my right, and I just stopped talking and put my head against his shoulder. Rested my heart and mind. Rested all that work. Gave up, at least for the moment.

And the next thing I knew, he was singing over me.

He had his arm wrapped around my shoulder, and he sang quietly over me. It felt like being enfolded in his arms, fully safe and secure. Almost like a small child held in her mother’s arms, full of trust in her mother’s care.

And it was enough.

In that moment, I felt his God-ness and my human-ness.

I saw that my questions mattered to him because I matter to him, but I also saw that he holds all things. Though I have been rattled, he is calm. He knows what he is doing. And if I don’t know and can’t comprehend, that is okay. He is God, and he knows.

He always knows.