How Long?

How long?

Ride any distance in the car with a group of kids, and you're certain to hear this question.

How long?

It's an impatient question. Not happy where we are. Stuck. Tired of being on the journey. Wish we could be somewhere else.

How long?

It's not a question satisfied with one answer. It's a question asked over and over again.

How long?

"'Bout an hour." That's become my standard answer to the question. The same question over and over deserves the same answer, doesn't it?

How long?

The more I read the Psalms, the more I feel like the psalmist is a long lost friend, one with whom I share many common life experiences.

How long?

That's the question the psalmist asks in Psalm 13:2.

How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and every day have sorrow in my heart?

The psalmist is persistent. He asks the question four times in just two verses. A few verses later, he expresses trust in God's love and goes on to affirm "You have been good to me, Lord."

In spite of his trust and affirmation, though, the psalmist asks, "How long, Lord?"

I can relate to that. I trust God (at least I say I do), and I know God's goodness. But I also wrestle with my thoughts, and I frequently experience sorrow for no apparent reason.

Terrence Real introduced me to the name covert depression. Winston Churchill called it "the black dog." Maybe they didn't call it "depression" back in the day of the psalmist, but from my reading, the name applies.

It's not a happy thing, depression. I feel stuck. It's only been two years since I accepted this name for my experience, but truth is it's been a lifelong journey. I'm tired of this ride, and I want to get off.

How long?

Damn right. That question's loaded with impatience!

How long?

It's not just impatience. It's a question of expectancy, too. Sure we're weary from the journey, but hope keeps us moving toward the destination. We trust the One who's driving. Surely we must be close.