The pool across from the apartment was littered with those enjoying the Atlanta sunshine, its celebrants unaware that evil lurked nearby. No one knows how long the stranger had been behind my bedroom door. Yet at some point he could conceal his compulsions no longer. There was the violent struggle. The plea for breath. And then darkness.
In an odd sort of way I felt pity for my perpetrator. The will to forgive was not difficult to forge. Only a troubled soul could have done what he did to me. Still, I saw him in every unknown face that crossed my path. The most difficult aspects of the attack went far deeper. Why life and not death? Where was God in my suffering? How would I ever live beyond this? The answer to my questioning was met with silence. And then more silence. But God's silence in my pain only served to drive me to my knees. It was there that I discovered answers were not what were needed. What I needed was Him.
God is not obligated to give explanation but He is always faithful to give revelation - of Himself and His ways. I have learned over the years that He is always, always good. And often His goodness is heard most clearly in our pain because that is when we lean into Him. I inwardly cringe when we speak of God's goodness in blessing but never in suffering. God was just as good when that stranger had his calloused hands around my throat as He was in my miraculous survival.
And again this week at the Boston Marathon.
And at the cross when He gave up His Son for me.
I don't profess to understand. But in knowing God, I have learned to trust the mystery.
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