by Allison Martin
I will extol thee, O LORD; for thou hast lifted me up, And hast not made my foes to rejoice over me.“ (Psalm 30:1)
It’s interesting the kinds of moments that make us choose our words carefully. Sorrow, and celebration. In their own way, they each slow us down to reflect on how we really feel. Something about the highs and lows of life makes us want to get the words just right.
Psalm 30 is a high point in King David’s life, on the heels of a very low low. He may be on the mountaintop, but he remembers the valley all too well. In the fresh joy of a brand new victory, I believe he penned his words very intentionally. From the very first verse, he paints a picture of God’s faithfulness in life’s darkest moments.
The English phrase “for thou has lifted me up” is just one Hebrew word meaning “to draw water”. There is an obvious flip side to the idea- to have been brought up, as if drawing water out of a well, he must first have been let down.
We understand an empty vessel being lowered into the darkness of a well. It is not thrown in, but lowered. Carefully, purposefully sinking. Secured, even as the blackness gets deeper and the light farther and farther away. Rest assured, there is a rope that was fastened with this journey in mind and a hand that does not intend to let go. Not that any of that can be seen right now. The further down it goes the more empty everything seems. Echoes that are barely heard from the surface are overwhelming down in the dark. The smallest sound swells as it bounces through the empty space, compounding into a deafening roar. Emptiness inside the vessel, emptiness all around. And all the while, it’s sent farther, lower, deeper.
A bucket on a rope won’t fight this. But I do.
I don’t like darkness, when I can’t see what’s coming up ahead. My mind plays tricks in the dark - I see things that aren’t there, and fear things that should never have had that power over me.
I claw and fight against emptiness, both in my life and in myself. Stillness is revealing, and I don’t like what I see.
I struggle against anything that takes me low, because my pride wants to be on the mountain. I want to be giving the hand up, not having to ask for it. I’d rather give the encouragement than need it myself.
So I fight. I numb my loneliness and sadness with scrolling social media, with food, with sleep. I pray my surface prayers, ignoring the elephant in the room and wondering why I feel so emotionless before God. I question and struggle and strain to see an escape route. Anything. I don’t care if it’s from God or not, I want out of here.
I’ve kicked and fought God through some trials only to find a most discouraging thing when I came back into the light: I was still empty. I had nothing to show for what I went through but the half hearted testimony: “I barely made it out, but thank God I did.” My purpose was laser focused onto getting out of the darkness that I never considered that maybe there was something waiting for me there.
So I came up with a new plan. Actually, it isn’t new. It’s always God’s requirement to see His best. It’s simply, surrender.
It’s where you stop trying to claw your way up the rope and out of your trial, and you simply hold onto it for dear life. Because there is a faithful Hand holding the other side, and if He is sending me down then He has prepared something there for me. It’s listening instead of informing God of the quickest fix for this. It’s an open heart to the lessons of the dark.
As surrender makes its way from my head to my heart, I feel something entirely new. It’s what the vessel feels as the rope slacks and the emptiness ends. It comes to rest on the water it was always intended to carry. And I feel the Spirit, slowly at first, then surrounding, then infilling.
His presence, like a cool clear river. Refreshing, cleansing, surrounding. It doesn’t just fill the empty space but it fills me. And I find not just what He sent me into the darkness for, but what I was made for. Away from everything I try to fill myself with, from the noise of people and responsibilities. I am alone, it’s dark, and I’m lower than I’ve ever been. Yet suddenly, somehow, I’m filled to overflowing. With nothing but Him.
And now, when the One who let me go down pulls me back into the light, I’ve got something to give. I went down, but I brought something back with me. I have hope to offer a sister in the dark. I have not just heard stories about who God is - I have felt His hands hold me together. He is not just an acquaintance but my closest friend, who stays when everyone else is gone. I went down to the bottom, but I found a great treasure there: Him.
That’s what David did, isn’t it? Most of the Psalms we cling to weren’t written on a grassy hillside bathed in sunlight. Those truths about God and His faithfulness were poured in at rock bottom. In caves and betrayal and disappointment. We learn to find our all in Him when there is nowhere else to go.
He let me go down because the plan was always to bring me back up. Richer. Stronger. And filled to overflowing.
