No. 14 When I forget I am loved

It happened the other morning while I was scrolling through the news with my tea favorite Early Grey beside me. Another headline, another moment of questioning. The world felt unsteady again. I closed the screen, but the unease stayed. It wasn’t only fear about what might happen next; it was the quieter fear underneath—the question of whether I am really known and loved in a world that feels this uncertain.

I've often found it difficult to believe that Christ loves me--not in the general sense—the one that applies to everyone—but in the particular, personal way that includes me.

I know the truth of it. I can quote the verses and recall the stories. I can explain the edges of this great mystery to someone else. But sometimes, when I'm alone (or maybe even just the feeling alone?), I often struggle to believe His love reaches as far as my own life.

This struggle doesn't come from open rebellion. I think there are remnants of my childhood there--always needing to strive and perform for the approval of those I love. I think the majority of it comes from a memory issue. I forget who I am and to whom I belong. I forget that love came first—before any faithfulness or accomplishment on my part (as if that were ever really needed).

Over time, forgetting becomes a kind of distance.

Lately, it's also been joined by fear. The world feels increasingly uncertain, and the steady hum of anxiety creeps in more easily than it used to. News headlines, division, and the slow ache of loss make it harder to rest in what's unseen. My thoughts spiral, and I start to wonder where safety can be found. I recognize that's part of the mechanism of sin. Fear, in its own way, becomes another form of forgetting—a forgetting of who we are and whose we are.

a favorite song from a favorite artist

When prayer feels quiet, I start to wonder whether He hears me. When life feels ordinary or heavy, I question whether His even sees in all that silence. It isn’t rebellion that draws me away—it’s weariness, the slow erosion of confidence in what I cannot see.

And before I know it, I too am an Israelite wandering in the wilderness, grumbling and even wishing a return to the bondage of Egypt.

But the Spirit interrupts the drift. It might be the rhythm of painting, a passage of Scripture that meets me differently than before and turns my eyes to the heavens, from where does my help come, or the gentle faith of someone who still believes when I grasping. Those moments don't always erase the doubts, but they remind me that love hasn't gone anywhere.

How long does He have to put up with my unbelief? Is He longsuffering towards me?

I can still struggle to believe that Christ has loved me all along. I want to believe. Maybe that's a small element of faith—not certainty or constant assurance, but the willingness to turn again toward love, trusting that even in our fear and forgetting, we are never forgotten.

Even the faith to believe isn’t something I create on my own. Maybe that’s part of what I keep forgetting—to trust that even faith itself has been given to me.