Beautiful Between

living fully in the now & not yet

Dear God, Thanks for Letting Me Cuss at You


Have you ever been angry at God? Maybe thought he wouldn’t want you just the way you are? I sure have – for much of my life, actually.

But the thing about grace is it takes you as you are, shattered as that may be. I didn’t get that my brokenness was exactly what God wanted, that he wasn’t surprised by or afraid of it. 

The thing about grace is it takes you as you are, shattered as that may be. Share on X

Today, I’m so excited to share a story about this on my friend Steve Austin’s blog. It’s called Dear God, Thanks for Letting Me Cuss at You

Dear God,

You’re not who I thought you were.

You don’t want what I thought you wanted. You don’t treat me how I expect to be treated. Sometimes, I don’t know what to do with you. See, I spent years trying to be good enough, trying to be what you deserve.

Shouldn’t a king have the best of everything? That’s not me. I’m sick and I’m toxic. You can’t want me.

But you and I, we see differently. What I call strength, you call fear and self-preservation. What I call weakness, you call beautiful dependence. In your eyes, the best I could offer you was precisely what I wanted to hide. All I could give was myself, broken as I was.

So thanks for letting me cuss at you.

Why don’t you fix me? Why don’t you just wave that *%#$ing magic wand I KNOW you have up there? I called you a liar, would slap your face if you showed it. But you withstood my storms. You were patience and peace, never matching my explosions, meeting me with ridiculous grace. You knew it wasn’t about you, and you were willing to take it. I don’t think I’d understand “steadfast love” if I hadn’t given you every reason to walk away.

Thanks for letting me make my bed in hell.

You’d just come down there after me. We spent a lot of time there, you and I – me in a fetal curl of panic and you patient, rushing nothing. Darkness was my closest friend, the only one I thought I deserved. I never imagined another life. But I couldn’t escape you, even there. You’d sit with me until I was ready to take your hand for the slow climb out.

Thanks for infuriating kindness.

I never deserved it and I knew it. I wanted to protect you from myself. I thought I could push hard enough to make you leave me alone, but you never budged. You weren’t scared. My brokenness couldn’t shake you, still can’t on my worst days. I expected punishment, but you only showed mercy. I expected harsh tones, but you only spoke kindly. It took years for me to listen, to stop pushing back, stop expecting you to set me up for pain. But kindness turned me to face you, called me from hiding.

Thanks for not forcing wholeness on me.

I begged for change, pleaded you to break my defenses by force, to stage the revolution I thought I needed. Why are you withholding healing? Why won’t you fix me? You insisted on tenderness: I will not take what you won’t give. “Fixing you” would require intimacy that would feel like a violation. That process would be more terrible than this. I want you whole, but I refuse to damage you in the process.

Thanks for teaching me to cry.

I remember the icy walls of numbness, years of not being allowed the luxury of tears. The warmth made me melt, the slow thaw of spring’s first sun. It was compassion and pain, sharing your affection. You insisted the things that break my heart for others – hurts, betrayal, abuse – should break my heart for me, too. It took so long for the fog to lift. But I learned to feel the highs and lows, to cry when I should, to say I’m sad and come for comfort.

Thank you for the long road. I hated it, screamed at you more times than I could count, weary of the journey. How often did I want to quit? But you proved too much of your love for me to leave. Where else would I go? I know you’ve got the only words of life.

You knew I still wanted you and the long road to wholeness was the right one. Though the path was sometimes terrifying, I learned the Healer as I was healed. I met the Comforter by being comforted. I resented you for that long road, but I wouldn’t trade it now.

And that’s the beauty of story, isn’t it? This long ugly road, my bed in hell, screaming and tears and fear – oh, God, I wouldn’t trade it for a second. You’re not who I thought you were – you’re better, infinitely better. See, now I know the one I’ve believed, a deep and real knowing I wouldn’t have without this.

And now you’re teaching me to overcome with a story. And it’s not just for me. A million messy thank you’s can well up in my soul, and I can own this because maybe somebody else will gain permission to live their own long road. And that is worth every moment.



10 Replies

  1. Marlene

    I understand your pain. I love your sweet honesty and I understand exactly what you’re talking about. I’ve felt it as well. I know the struggle to believe and at the same time, be in so much pain that I have to beg God to help me with my unbelief. Like Job, I sometimes can only pray, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him…” Job 13:15 NKJV

    More than once, I have had to say to him, “I don’t like this place that I’m in, but you have me here, and if this is where you have me, then I choose to accept that it is okay because you swear that you love me.”

    May both you and I be blessed with a deep understanding that we are so, so loved. I pray that for both of us that that reality will be more than tangible.

  2. Judi

    Sometimes when you are at the end of your rope and lost all hope, God nudges you to do a random Google search that leads you to the exact words you needed to hear. Thank you for writing them. ❤️

  3. CoolZoneFly

    I would like to share the story of my past 7 years of hell…but its far too tiresome. However, I did find some comfort in these writings. Peace and God bless to all….

  4. Anonymous

    Thank you Sarah. Whoever you are.

  5. Tony Camillo

    I’ve read many of these pages of people who felt like they were in despair. And all of a sudden they get some revelation. Well not me. I have cursed Jesus and God for having abandoned me. Im totally alone in this world. I have no one who cares if I live or die. When i was in the hospital for heart attacks (im only 57) and I told them that I have no “emergency contact”, they look as if there is something wrong with me. I’m not a bad person. I’m kind, thoughtful, etc etc, but yet I’m alone. And I’m tired of hearing that “Jesus is with me”. That means absolutely nothing to me. I’m disabled, living on less than 1,000 a month. I’m a decorated veteran. Yet I am garbage to Jesus…

    1. Shermunculus

      “But you and I, we see differently. What I call strength, you call fear and self-preservation. What I call weakness, you call beautiful dependence. In your eyes, the best I could offer you was precisely what I wanted to hide. All I could give was myself, broken as I was.”

      I’ve had to learn that the sentiment “I’m not a bad person” is usually what stands between me and breakthrough— between me and Jesus. The thing is, you think pretty highly of yourself, that you deserve more than what you’re suffering through, and that Jesus thinks you’re garbage. That is a reversal of the truth. The truth is that you, and I, and every other person on this planet, *are* garbage, and we prove it a thousand times a day by falling short of the standard of holiness. It is precisely when we acknowledge this that we can start to step on that journey of healing: it’s precisely when we realize that, yes, we are in fact not being given what we deserve— because if we did, we would all live in hell. We all deserve death, and there is absolutely nothing we can offer Jesus to merit any sort of mercy. By clinging to a false sense of entitlement, we deny the very method by which Jesus draws close to us. Whether you are a decorated veteran or murderous traitor is completely, entirely, and mercifully irrelevant.

    2. That is not true. There is so much sorrow sewn by the Fallen One that it seems like Jesus isn’t there. You have the ability to work out your emotions rationally or irrationally. Bad shit happens to everyone. Shit, Jesus got nailed to a cross for being a good guy. Sometimes the only way to make it through is to hold on tight, close your eyes and scream FUCK YOU and.laugh until the storm subsides

  6. Lauren

    I mocked Him today. Spat on His face… heart feels empty like He left me. I was abused for years by my father…..and I snapped today and told Him He didn’t give a damn about me. I still want to just not exist for all the things I said to Him. I want to hide. I feel ugly. I think I pushed Him out for good. Cause this time I had conviction in my voice when I told Him I could protect myself better than He could protect me. I even thought the enemy was more powerful than Him and admitted it to His face…..I invited evil into my life but I feel regret and remorse. I just got so angry and now I don’t think there’s a possibility to go back. I used to be intimate with Him but maybe I’m not saved now. And I ruined that for myself. My mom said I chose that…..I feel so awful. What do I do??

    1. Khloe

      He’s still there & I hope you’re still here too. I feel your pain.

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