“When you get to your wit’s end, you will find God there.” So proclaimed the sign outside a little country church near my house. I am pretty certain these witty, theological colloquialisms come from a book somewhere, but they are eerily prescient. Because lately, I’ve had a bad case of rope burn. Rope burn is what happens when your young, thoroughbred ex-racehorse decides that the hoof pick is a snake, and she rears up like a scene out of the “Black Stallion” while you’re clutching the lead rope like a monkey. Rope burn is what happens when you’re lashing your belongings to the back of a pick-up truck and someone on the other side of the truck – as desperate as you to speed the transition into a different house – pulls on the rope the same time you do. Rope burn is what happens when you clutch your circumstances tight, and despite your best efforts, they shift and hitch and jerk themselves right out of your control, taking the skin on your palms – and your wits – with them.
I have rope burn, all right. The Lord snatched from me what passed for circumstantial control so that I could find Him standing right in front of me, holding the rope. That’s how a tug of war is won, you see. One party loosens their grip; the other takes up the slack. And boy, that rope hurts on its way out of your hands. But “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love Him” (1 Corinthians 2:9), and I’m at my wit’s end.
So I suppose I’ll loosen my grip.