Beloved

I whispered your name today, but you didn’t hear Me.

Do you hear Me now as towering, concrete walls stare down at you? Grocery bags weight your hands, and your heart sags with despair. Masses of Asian pedestrians surround you, yet you’ve never felt so alone.

Curious, dark brown eyes linger on you—a foreigner in their vast land. Your soul cries out. Why can’t I be happy here? Why hasn’t God made me into the missionary I’m supposed to be?

Pain latches onto My heart. “Oh, Beloved, I don’t want you to be someone different from who you are.”

Your eyebrows twitch together. Did you hear Me?

A gray-haired man hobbles close and spits out a stream of berry juice, splattering your shoes.

You wince as if I struck you.

“No, Beloved! I will never lash out at you. When I wound, it’s to heal, just like a doctor who cuts in order to take out the cancer then knits muscle and skin back together.”

But you don’t let My words penetrate as you renew your grip on runaway emotions and sacks of perishables.

You step onto a dirty street curb. Cars stream by. Horns screech and tires swerve as you weave your way through the city’s unrelenting traffic. Sweat creeps under your armpits from the island’s polluted humidity. You’re so close to paradise, yet so far. You’ve seen what others come to enjoy—the crystal beaches, sparkling sea, and ornate five-star hotels. Wealthy Asians and vacationing Westerners lounge in comfort while you struggle to climb seven flights of unforgiving, spit-stained steps to the bare apartment you try to call home.

You reach your steel door then lean against it a moment. A grimace of pain shoots across your face. The pain inside bubbles to the surface, like boiling water that can’t leave a hot stove.

The Lord didn’t send me here to make me happy. He wants me to make a difference.

 “No, Beloved, that’s not what I want.”

You jam your key into the lock, scared of connecting, frightened of what I’ll ask. You rush into the apartment and slam the door, but I enter with you.

You shove groceries into cupboards and dump fruit onto a glass table, but the flurry of activity doesn’t last. You’re too tired. Too defeated.

Your shoulders slump, and you bow your head. You walk to the westward balcony and lower yourself to the cool floor. As dusk settles over the smog-coated city, you gaze out at blinking neon lights and ache for diamonds in a velvet sky.

Passion for you—just you—burns within My heart, and I gentle My voice. “I miss you, Beloved. Will you spend time with Me?”

Anguish and longing surge inside you, but fear snatches away your sense of My presence. You jump to your feet and rush from the balcony, chased by a cacophony of accusing voices.

You’re a failure. He’s not happy with you. Run away. Hide.

You awaken your computer then stare at its fluorescent screen. You press keys, trying to breathe life into the story you’ve created, but I obscure the sentences.

“No more escaping into fiction, Beloved. You’re hurting far too much. These stories can’t give you the love that you crave.”

Tears spill down your cheeks, and finally distress overrides the risk of conversing. You whisper, breath soft as feather-down, “Jesus, I’m so sorry. I know you want me here to tell these people how much you love them, but I’m just pretending to have Your joy and love inside. Just take me to Heaven now. I’m of no more use to You.”

My heart breaks open, pouring rain onto barren ground. “Oh, My darling child, there’s nothing further from the truth. I’m not angry with you or scornful of you or disappointed. I’m not the harsh taskmaster you thought you had to serve. I love you, and I will always take care of you.”

You lift your head, and hope sparks in your eyes like dawn in an iridescent sky. “Really, Jesus?”

My heart sings. “Yes, Beloved. Really.”