I sat in the passenger seat as my husband drove the incline of the Cascade mountains. We were driving to Eastern Washington for a weekend away with friends. As we emerged from the pass and descended into desert landscape, the sun set and my tears fell fast and hot. I begged my husband for answers, but we both knew I was really begging God.

For nearly a decade, I lived in a desert of faith waiting for God to provide relief, answers, companions, hope. I struggled with unnamed illnesses and an increasing detachment from my sense of self. Of all my struggles, the spiritual spirling stymied me the most. I knew God could heal all of it — none of my difficulties were hidden from him. He knew the details. He knew the cause. He knew the implications. 

But for a painful amount of time, God didn’t provide the answers or relief I expected. For reasons I could not understand, I could not feel his presence.

I learned the hard work of showing up in faith even when the feelings were absent. I still read my Bible, still tried to pray, still showed up to church, still tried to serve. I sought the face of God, but it felt fruitless and dry and painful.

But none of it was wasted.

Shortly after my tearful ride, I sat down at my desk in our apartment in Seattle to write for a class, but instead, I wrote a piece for my soul, a seed of hope. I wrote a prayer — a personal Psalm — about God’s silence and my anger.

But even as I wrote, God guided my key-tapping fingers to communicate the hope I still had. At the end of my prayer, I wrote this: 

“Perhaps when I run out of things to say, run out of indignant questions, run out of myself, I’ll sit in your silence with you. Maybe you’ll smile at me, still without words, and plant my mustard seed of faith — because that’s all that has endured the years of this desert of silence. You’ll plant it on the banks of a living stream, and my small seed will grow into a tree that bears fruit in season whose leaves won’t wither and whose life will prosper. Your silence will give way to a well-rooted life.” 

Even in the middle of the suffering, I had hope that something fruitful would be produced from my pain. 

***

In that waiting, I sought advice and encouragement from fellow Christians. I didn’t know what to make of my experiences or how to reconcile God’s silence with his goodness. Too frequently, people quoted verses and offered platitudes instead of steeping in my pain. We can be quick to draw conclusions and slow to see the mystery.

One of the most quoted verses to those suffering is Romans 8:28. “And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.” (NLT)

Though the intention is encouragement, the resuscitation of this verse to those of us suffering often leaves us feeling cheated and stuck. Where’s the room for lament? How can this horrible circumstance be good? 

Does this suggest that we’re to look for the silver lining? Should we gloss over the pain in an act of faith?

I don’t believe that’s the message. 

We don’t need to hide our pain or declare a silver lining; we need to have faith and hope that God is still at work, even in our times of suffering. We find hope in meaning. God will not waste this season. He’s getting the soil ready, and this season is just as important as harvest. We may not see the purpose — it may be deeply mysterious for the duration of this life. But we can trust that God is doing a new thing. And that new thing — that’s the good part. 

In God’s redemptive kingdom, suffering produces a seed.

And He will plant it, and it will bear fruit. 

So someday we can echo Joseph and say, “God has made me fruitful in the land of my suffering.” (Genesis 41:52, NIV)