He Gives and Takes Away

I have always had trouble connecting with the Psalms. It frustrates me, as I enjoy reading poetry and studying Scripture. Why is it so hard for me to understand Scriptural poetry?

In particular, Psalms 42 and 43, penned by a son of Korah, have always eluded me. I feel I should “get” them, as the psalmist writes, “I am deeply depressed” and asks his soul why it is “so dejected” several times. He seems to be struggling with despondency like I do, to which I should be able to relate. Yet as my eyes follow the words of the poem, my heart falters. The rhythm of faith pulsing throughout the psalm becomes asynchronous and unmusical within me.

I can’t imagine the hope, the “light” and “truth” the writer asks from God. I can’t identify with the repetition of, “Put your hope in God, for I will still praise him.” Even the psalmist’s emotional memories of “leading the festive procession to the house of God, with joyful and thankful shouts” are beyond me. Joy and thankfulness? I’m lucky if I make it through the day with a sliver of energy and relief, much less with grounding recollections of rejoicing. There’s no way I can imagine or remember times of gratitude while I am depressed, or at least, I cannot connect with those memories.

Because I cannot understand the hope of these psalms, I try turning to the suffering. “Why are you so dejected, my soul? Why are you in such turmoil?” the poet writes three times. He mentions his enemies gloating over him, taunting him that he is not receiving God’s aid. He even imagines his sorrow as a tidal wave sent by God: “Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your breakers and your billows have swept over me.” His tears have been his food day and night, he says. Is that drama not reminiscent of my own experience?

Yet it differs in some fundamental ways from my own depression. The psalmist opens Psalm 42 saying he longs to appear before God, to be in God’s presence. That is why he is weeping day and night. Yet in my own despondency, I do not long for anything but relief. I don’t care where it comes from. I even imagine that ceasing to live would be a mitigation of the pain; I am not nearly as pious and faithful as this son of Korah. To think of consoling myself with such words as, “Then I will come to the altar of God, to God, my greatest joy,” is nearly inconceivable. My heart is broken in more ways than one—not only am I afflicted but also sinful, such that in my suffering I turn to the “hope” of this world rather than to the Author of hope Himself. I don’t know how to desire the right things.

But what can I do? Amidst the emotional turmoil of depression wreaking havoc in my soul, I don’t know how to cry out to God. Sure, I can speak the words, but to mean them? “The Lord will send his faithful love by day; his song will be with me in the night—a prayer to the God of my life,” the psalmist writes. I can read these words, speak them aloud, shout and sing them in a congregation, but they do not penetrate the thick barrier of my heart’s darkness. It is surely night within me, but no song rises to my lips. Rather, my mind is stuck on loop of things I wish would help me but ultimately will provide no relief. I feel as though I have nothing left, nothing to cling to.

Many years ago, a man named Job had everything taken from him—his wealth, his family, his health—such that he had nothing left to cling to either. His famous response was:

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will leave this life. The LORD gives, and the LORD takes away. Blessed be the name of the LORD.” (Job 1:21 CSB)

A modern praise song echoes these words:

You give and take away, You give and take away. Still my heart will choose to say, “Lord, blessed be Your name.”

I might be able to sing, unfeeling, hymns and worship songs unending, but as soon as these lyrics appear on the screen, as soon as words pass from my lips, the darkness within me begins to rupture. Often, when I am depressed, I cannot cry. I don’t know why—a numbness takes over, and tears are as far from me as laughter. Yet when I sing these words, You give and take away, my eyes grow misty. Still my heart will choose to say. My voice cracks with effort as my soul recognizes a decision point—will I curse or bless God in this time? Lord, blessed be Your name. I must bless Him. I will bless Him.

You see, the son of Korah recognizes this same decision point when he writes,

Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your breakers and your billows have swept over me.

He recognizes his affliction, his turmoil, his tragedy, and yet he also writes:

The Lord will send his faithful love by day; his song will be with me in the night— a prayer to the God of my life.

God gives, and God takes away; blessed be His name. He will send his love and his hope to me, a song in the night, a melody of light in the darkness. I realize that in the confusion of despondency I feel God is weak, impotent against the darkness, or maybe that He doesn’t care. Instead, He is sovereign over it: “I form light and create darkness, I make success and create disaster. I am the Lord, who does all these things (Isaiah 45:7 CSB). He gives, and He takes away; He provides light to illuminate and withdraws it to cast shadows. He is all-powerful, omnipotent, uninhibited, and non-contingent. Nothing we do is outside His power.

My mental illness is not outside His plan either. What if, blessing me with mental and emotional stability for the first years of my life, God withdrew them and allowed depression and psychosis to take hold? What if I am like a child—dependent, understanding only in part, clinging to whatever comes nearest for support and constancy? When my son was young, we had to break him of using the pacifier he relied on for comfort. We taught him self-soothing and trust to replace it. Maybe God withdrew my emotional and mental well-being to show me that it was merely a pacifier, a placeholder for the trust that will govern the rest of my life. When I sing that line, Still my heart will choose to say, I remember that like love, faith is a choice.

I will choose to praise God. I suppose I can say with the psalmist, “Put your hope in God, for I will still praise him, my Savior and my God.” Maybe this line isn’t so much motivational as declarative—perhaps the poet is writing that he will continue to praise God no matter what—no matter how many people taunt or ridicule him, no matter what fails in the midst of his faith, no matter what he has lost in pursuit of hope.

Then I will come to the altar of God, to God, my greatest joy. I will praise you with the lyre, God, my God.

Ancient instrument aside, I will one day come before the altar of God in praise like this son of Korah, and even in this moment, I can take heart in that fact. God gives and takes away. Some days I have my sanity, some days I have less of it. No matter what, I can bless the name of the Lord, hoping in my Savior and my God.