(a devotional from Miki Clouser)

This past Sunday morning I found myself tearing up a little bit unexpectedly. I was already excited about the last song in our worship set, “Blessed Be Your Name”, because it’s one of my favorites. But the sermon on Elijah at Mount Sinai desperately needing an encounter with God brought back some memories that really brought it home for me.

When I was in my early teens my life was at a place where I regularly experienced fear, pain, and hopelessness. I lived in a “Christian” home where I had been physically abused badly enough to see a doctor and watch my parent lie about how the injury occurred. I was in a church where an adult member (unbeknownst to anyone else) was being completely inappropriate towards me, and it made me feel disgusting and ashamed.

On top of that, I had suddenly developed all kinds of mystery health issues. My right arm was nearly immobile, and I was struggling to complete schoolwork and had to learn to eat and write with my left hand. I eventually landed in braces for several years. I know now that physical symptoms often accompany childhood trauma.  But at the time, I felt trapped, like everything and everyone around me (including my own body) had betrayed me and there was no end in sight. One particular day I was left in an impossible and overwhelming situation that wrecked me, and I decided that I was done. So. Done. Like Elijah, I was under a broom tree, wishing I could die. I was 14 years old.

I went to my room, where I had my own family-sized bottle of ibuprofen for the pain and swelling that was incapacitating me daily. I put a healthy-sized handful of red pills in my mouth and took a swig of water to swallow. Then God and I had an argument. His still small voice and my crushed soul fought over my next move. Eventually I emptied my mouth of the red mush and hid the evidence because I was ashamed and afraid I would be punished.

But that day I told God that I needed hope and a reason to live, or I would be right back with that mouthful of pills in a week. Shortly afterwards He gave me a precious friend who was too new to conservative Christianity to act like she had it all together. I loved that woman to pieces. But the biggest takeaway from that day was that God had me twice over.  He saved and redeemed me from sin, and then He preserved the life I was ready to throw away. It changed me, it gave me hope. And that still small voice has become my best friend over the hard years since.

Over a decade after that impactful “mountain moment,” my precious friend’s son became addicted to heroin. At the same time, I was struggling through more difficulties with both my family and my health. One of our favorite songs was Matt Redman’s “Blessed Be the Name of the Lord,” and my friend bought us matching bracelets with the words on them to remind us to still choose praise through all of it.

After our worship practice early Sunday morning before the service, I sent my friend a photo of the bracelet with a huge smile and a light nostalgic heart. But during the sermon I remembered various other “mountain moments” in my life, times when I so desperately needed to hear from God, and he met me there. So, playing the song again to close the service was a different experience than just an hour before. It reached deeply into my heart and brought tears of joy and thankfulness because of my own memories on the mountain. Memories of God’s still small voice, and the ways it has changed me so completely. I have a hope and a future, something I lacked before hearing the voice.

If, like Elijah, you’re currently in a cave on a mountain, waiting for that still small voice, let me encourage you. God wants to speak into your depression and sorrow, into your hopelessness, He wants you to hear, and He wants you to walk away with fresh perspective. Listen intently for that voice; beg God to speak and then sit in expectation, because the voice will come. And one day the memory of His voice will bring tears of joy and thankfulness for what has been changed.