I’m spying on Justin in the backyard with our daughters; the three of them are putting on a “pet show.” London and Eve stand, backs straight, feet together with their pets in their arms. They wait for their scores. They are serious and expectant, lost in play. Justin’s voice booms as he reveals the winners. London giggles, jumps up and down, as her deer is named “Fastest Rainbow Deer” of the competition. Eve’s entire body smiles when her horse, Soda Pop, takes top honors as “Most Beautiful.”

I watch from the kitchen where I’m making blueberry donut muffins with lemon glaze for Father’s Day. The sweet bread rises in the oven, golden, blueberry breaking through the cracks and running onto the muffin tin. Every inch of my little house smells of baked goods.

This blueberry muffin is my turtledove, a small offering unworthy of the one to whom it is given. It is as perfect a thing as I know how to make and I offer it as a glimpse of all the perfection I long to give. 

This morning, with flour in my hair, I want to say thank you to the pet show announcer. Thank you for being the kind of father who makes pretend real. For being present. For being silly. For being wise. 

I cried out to God for help;
    I cried out to God to hear me.
When I was in distress, I sought the Lord;
    at night I stretched out untiring hands, 
    and I would not be comforted.

This past Sunday morning Justin read Psalm 77. It was an unconventional scripture reading. 

Will the Lord reject forever? 
    Will he never show his favor again?
Has his unfailing love vanished forever?
    Has his promise failed for all time?

He read slowly, his words heavy. The auditorium quieted.

Has God forgotten to be merciful? 
    Has he in anger withheld his compassion? 

In the silence two little girls on the front row began dancing, dancing and then singing. 

Their mother reached for them, shushing, but their song mixed with the Psalmist’s words. They chanted, “Blessed be the name of the Lord. Blessed be the name of the Lord. Blessed be the name of the Lord most high.”

And I smiled in spite of myself, smiled at the dappled light. 

Tampa Bay, Florida—my hometown, the lightning capital of North America—sees 100 thunderstorms per year. For eighteen years I lived every fourth day to the clap track of thunder.

People know Florida as the sunshine state, and the sun does shine, but on summer afternoons, even on cloudless days, the winds change and by three or four the storm rolls in.

I remember sitting on the terrazzo floor of a little two bedroom house my parents rented, looking out the window watching lightning streak across the sky like electric roots. I was seven and not at all afraid.

You get used to the thunder. And the lightning, fragile and mighty, seems beautiful. 

Locals learn the lightning rules early: Get out of the water. Don’t stand under trees. Put the golf club down. 

But other than obeying the rules, we go about our day. 

I have friends in Texas who wake up every night a storm rolls through. I sleep through them. My Floridian husband always sleeps through them. My brother slept through tropical storms and hurricanes. 

Here’s the thing about living with storms, especially in a place like Florida: You expect them to come and you expect them to go.

We plan on storms, knowing they’re part and parcel of Florida life, a payment for the otherwise perfect weather we enjoy. It rained on my wedding day. I was not surprised.

We also plan on a storm’s inevitable end. We expect the sun to shine in the morning, if not in time for an evening stroll on the shore. 

Here in Austin, Texas people freak out over storms. Central Texans know what to do in a drought but give us six inches of rain or a tornado warning and we are in full-throttle panic mode. It’s because people in Texas don’t know storms. They haven’t experienced enough of them.

Of course this is an illustration. You know the point already.

Life’s storms come—of that we can be sure—and still we freak out when the clouds roll in. The biggest freak-outs come to those unaccustomed to storms. 

I wrote in my journal last Sunday, “I am blessed by an abundance of suffering.” Not Job-level suffering, but enough to know storms come and storms go. It’s been one of the most peace-giving truths I’ve learned in my 31 years. 

Knowing storms come prevents disorientation; storms rarely knock me off my feet.

Knowing they go gives me hope in the suffering.

Living on earth is a lot like living in Tampa: As long as we’re here, the storms will come. They’ll come out of the clear blue sky, dumping all over your perfect picnic or beach wedding or high school graduation ceremony. They’ll soak the interior of your car with the windows down. They’ll down the tree in your front yard. 

But then they’ll go away—just as unexpectedly as they came. The sun will come out and dry up the wet. In an hour you’ll look around at everything green and lush, beautiful, and you’ll pinch yourself wondering if you dreamed the thunder. Or maybe you’ll spend a few days cleaning up the mess left behind. Perhaps you can’t fix everything now broken. Still (still) the storm will pass.

Until it’s time for a storm again.

I long for the day when storms cease, but until then, I expect them. And I expect them to go away.

Read books like Habakkuk or Isaiah or Job or Psalms and you’ll see question after question after question:

“Are you there, God?”

“Has your unfailing love vanished forever?”

“Have you forgotten to be merciful?”

They’re good men—the writers of these books—men who love God, men who pursue God, men who speak for God to His people. God loves them, commends them, uses them for His glory. 

I can only conclude, having considered their questions (and commiserated with their confusion) that God, our almighty mystery of a God, invites questions. 

Today, I see the church shying away from thorny questions, questions like “Why do people suffer?” or, more along the lines of the prophets, “God, we’re suffering, where are you?”

Some people say questions evidence doubt. Maybe some do. However, asking God, “Where are you?” comes not out of doubt but faith, faith that God is Who He said He is and will do what He said He’d do. When we have faith, we will inevitably have questions.

Last night my small group made a list of our questions—things we’re longing for God to explain, stuff we just can’t wrap our heads around. After compiling the list we didn’t feel less sure of our God. We felt lighter for being able to share our heavy questions. And we felt respect for a God who defies simple answers.

I think we avoid avoid questions for two reasons:

1. Because we’re terrified God’s not there

or

2. We’re scared He’s not the God He’s led us to believe He is.

And isn’t that the very definition of doubt?

Far more often, the people who won’t ask questions are the doubters. 

I wrote on Sunday, listening to Justin preach on this topic, “We are not God’s PR team.” We are not responsible for candy-coating God, for making Him look better, more palatable, or more electable. We need not worry that our questions will make Him look bad.

I think of my kids and the way they whine and cry for my attention and my love, the way they stomp and pout when they can’t understand what I’m doing (or not doing), the way they ask questions all day long—Are we there yet? Why not? Do I get apple juice, too? Why did London get the big piece? 

They ask me for juice because I’m the person who provides the juice. They ask where we’re going because I’m the one who makes the plans. They ask why things aren’t fair because I’m the arbiter of justice. 

If one day my kids stop asking me questions (and likely one day they will) I’ll know our relationship has changed, that they’ve stopped being dependent on me, that they’ve found other sources of wisdom and direction, or that they’ve lost confidence in my answers or the likelihood that I’ll provide an answer. 

My children turn to me because they trust me. If they don’t trust me, they’ll turn somewhere else.

And that’s why I ask God questions, because I trust Him.