The dermatologist rolls right up to me on her stool so we’re knee to knee. Her voice is tender. “Tell me what’s been going on with your hands.”

Out of nowhere my tears press; I hadn’t realized my emotions were so close to the surface. I turn my palms up so she can inspect the patches of cracked, bleeding skin that have run together over time to form one red-hot mess.

She’s younger, but I feel like a small child.

I tell her how I’ve given up on the prescription creams and am trying to self-treat; to cut down on anxiety I’ve even quit my job. No improvement. My body seems stuck in its torturous response to a lifetime of cumulative stress capped by our daughter’s three-year illness.

She sees my distress. And when she says, “I can help you,” my eyes start leaking for real.

Don’t we all wonder at times if our miseries are seen, especially by God?

The Disney film “Queen of Katwe” depicts the unlikely rise of Phiona Mutisi and her poverty-stricken family out of the Ugandan slums. Early in the movie Phiona poses a question that sets up the rest of her story. “Do you think God has forgotten us?” she asks.

Her sister’s response strikes a sour chord: “I don’t think God cares about us one way or the other.”

There’s only one dark, cold place in all of Creation where God doesn’t see and care. In our minds.

I’ve noticed this kind of doubt germinates best way below the surface, in the dank soil of my discontent. Poor me, overlooked by God. Or worse, He sees my suffering, yet doesn’t care. I can be blissfully unaware of these false beliefs rooting around in my unconscious mind until the evidence breaks ground in all its ugliness: Harsh words. Indifference. Inability to worship in truth.

Even Jesus’ disciples entertained the lie. “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” they asked Jesus, who lay snoozing on a pillow while storm-soaked winds tossed their boat around. (See Mark 4:38.)

I love that it may have been Peter who questioned whether Jesus cared, in light of what he would write many years later to the early churches–to us. Long after he watched the Galilean Sea-Calmer in action, and with a faith that now knew no bounds, Peter wrote, “Cast all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you.”

And then, in the same breath, a warning: “Be sober-minded, watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:7,8).

Peter warns us that the shadowy bogs in our minds where we don’t trust God with our storms are exactly where the enemy lurks, and so we must not linger there. Wherever faith is weak, our cagey predator smells easy pickins.

Where then do we go when Jesus seems asleep at the wheel?

I know I must move my eyes from my state of affairs to what I know about my Lord’s compassion. He sees my bloody hands and empathizes; his hands bled once too.

But anytime I focus on my hands, I measure my misery. Every time I focus on his, I experience immeasurably deep compassion and lovingkindness; his racham and chesed. The two Hebrew words God used to describe himself when Moses begged him to reveal his name.

When we say “God is love,” we may as well say mountains are flat. God’s love is responsive. Chesed embodies faithful love in action. Nothing is more central to his character. Tenacious tenderness. Unswerving, active mercy. It’s love as a verb. It’s the Cross and so much more.

He will have compassion according to the abundance of his steadfast love; for he does not afflict from his heart or grieve the children of men. -Lamentations 3:32,33

I can and must testify to the thousand ways his compassion has moved swiftly toward me–rushing in, surrounding and refreshing me in all my wounded places. Comfort surrounds me in every trial, whenever I acknowledge his goodness.

So I’ve become a passionate collector of his tender mercies, those teeny daily encouragements that drip from trees like the sweetest sap. A friend’s unexpected visit. A well-timed hug. A need met by God in a creative way. When I notice these as I go about my day, I’m reminded . . .

. . . his eyes are tender toward me.

. . . he holds me in my suffering.

. . . he responds and helps me.

He saw my sleepless night, the tension in my shoulders when I woke today. He knows everything that grieves my heart. For now I live with psoriasis and excema, but I’m being helped. I am indeed, in some ways, a small, helpless child. But I’m a child with a loving Father who focuses his power to bring comfort and healing.

God doesn’t just reach down and pat us on the head; he lifts our spirits high to meet him in the realm of heaven. He doesn’t want us to just hobble along; he makes us to soar above our earthly cares.

[bctt tweet=”God doesn’t just reach down and pat us on the head; he lifts our spirits high to meet him in the realm of heaven. ” username=”KitTosello”]

Our trouble comes when we believe he can raise us from death, but not from discouragement.

Are you watchful today, really expecting to be lifted? Friend, he will respond to your pain; he is already responding.

I pass this along to you today so when the enemy, catlike, takes swipes at you, you stand firm against doubt. You can fulfill your calling as an ambassador of hope. You can look others in the eye and say, “I can help you because I am being helped.”

Have you seen evidence of the Lord’s compassion in your life this week? Hallelujah! Please share in a comment below.

When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you care for him? -Psalm 8:3,4