When "Why?" Is the Burning Question in My Heart

The other night, I held my husband as he cried – and I mean cried – (as did I) as the father in Like Arrows came in to talk to his daughter, the bride. Another hit to our hearts and realization of a moment that we will miss as parents. Though I’ve grieved over not having a little girl, I still have questions. Questions that I’m not sure I’ll ever have the answer to.

 “Why?” (I hate it when my own kids ask that question) I know well the reality that God sees all and does all things well. He doesn’t owe me an answer in any way. Yet the question lingers as a winter that seems to never end. When I consider my “why” question, I realize it actually goes deeper than just those three small letters. It’s connected to my heart. When I peel back the layers, the question looks more like:

 “Did I do something wrong?”
 “Do I not have what it takes to raise a daughter?”
 “Am I not woman enough myself to set an example for a little girl?”

Just putting voice to those questions brings up another layer of wounds on my identity and beauty.

The world constantly whispers (and sometimes screams) these scars onto our hearts. “You’re not enough.” “You’re too much.” “You can’t handle it.” “No one can handle you.” “Your heart is too deep.” “You’re unwanted.” “You’re ugly, mean, rude, selfish, etc.” On and on they go. Maybe these words came through our parent’s mouths or maybe simply in a cold shoulder when we would get emotional over a seemingly trivial issue. Maybe a sibling was the favored one and we were ignored. Maybe our arrival came at a time of intense pressure in our parents lives. Maybe our parents were wonderful, and we had a genuinely loving relationship with them, but we heard these words (verbally or insinuated) from a friend at school, from a teacher, a grandparent, a boyfriend, or an employer.

We respond in one of two ways to these wounds. We get stronger, determined that we will never be hurt in that way again. Maybe anger is the coverup, or makeup, clothes, the way we carry ourselves. Or we walk around as wounded, hurting shells of people who live in constant anxiety. We tiptoe around people who present threats, we try to please and make everyone happy and do everything in our power to not rock the boat. Ultimately, at the root of both of these responses is fear – fear that we might be found out, that someone might see though our guise, that we will be seen for what we are – either too much or not enough!

But God is loving. 1 John states that He IS Love! And perfect love drives out all fear. There is no fear in love because fear has to do with punishment. That’s it. The reason I fear, the reason we fear, is that we fear the repercussions of being found out. Will we be reprimanded again or told how we should buck up? Will that person feel like we are too much to handle and walk away? If God really sees our hearts, will even he be repulsed and draw back in disgust? What kind of punishment will we incur if we’re found out to not be who we should be?

That is at the root of my question: Is God punishing me by not giving me a daughter because of something I’ve done or not done?

As I gain clarity on the reality of my question, I realize it reveals a distorted view about who God is. And that distorted view reflects on my own identity and radiates into my wounds. We have an enemy who prowls around seeking someone to destroy (1 Peter 5:8). And he does it as a deceiver, the father of lies. Isn’t that how this whole messed up world got started in the first place? One woman taking a solid bite of one lie. Oh, how I don’t want to be her. I want to see through the lies and believe the truth. Here are the lies that I’ve been tempted to chew on recently. . .

Lie: If I don’t measure up, God will withhold his love, grace and gifts.

Truth: Romans 5:8 – “But God demonstrates his own love toward us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” I didn’t measure up to begin with. I was as far from deserving or worthy of his sacrifice as anyone, and yet He still showered me with his love and gave the ultimate gift – His life for mine. John 15 states that there is no greater love than when a man will lay down his life for his friend. Amazing Grace!

Lie: If I mess up, God will be out to get me and punish me.

Truth: Psalm 103:8 – “The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. He will not always chide, nor will he keep his anger forever. He does not deal with us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our iniquities. For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his steadfast love toward those who fear him, as far as the east is from the west, so far does he remove our transgressions from us.” I am so grateful that God’s love is not dependent on my performance. I can rest assured, that when I mess up (and I will) he is like the father of the Prodigal Son, standing there with open arms waiting to welcome me back, full of love and forgiveness.

Lie: If I get too emotional or struggle to trust God, He will be overwhelmed by me and withdraw his presence.

Truth: Psalm 34:18 – “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted. He saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I love the Psalms for the reality and spectrum of emotions they reveal. David was considered a man after God’s own heart, and yet he openly expressed to God feelings of anger, rage, sadness, despair, depression, doubt, fear, and so many more. God longs for us to pour out our hearts to him and be our refuge (Psalm 62). And I love how David goes on to express that even when those closest to him abandons him (his father and mother), God invites him to come close (Psalm 27:10) And Paul expresses in Romans 8 that there is nothing in heaven or earth, good or bad that can ever separate us from God’s love (vs. 31-39). What reassurance that I’m never too much for my Heavenly Father!

It’s so easy to get set in our patterns of “stinkin’ thinkin’” as a friend of mine likes to call it. These lies are made to sound so much like truth. Just like Eve facing the serpent, we begin to think, You know, maybe he’s right. Maybe God hasn’t been telling us the truth all along. But my friends, I have seen first hand the devastation that can be brought by buying into these lies. Eve took a bite, and all the future was forever changed. I want to rise above this way of thinking. I want to learn to see the truth in the midst of the lies and trust the goodness of my heavenly father, no matter what.

In order to do this, I must learn to speak truth to my heart - for my heart is deceitful. Truth is found exclusively in the Word of God. The only way we will be able to fight the lies of the enemy is by keeping the truth close at hand (buckled around our waist) and hidden in our hearts.

My "why" question can be brought before the throne of God. He's not afraid of my deepest questions, fears, or wounds. As a loving Father, he will, by His Spirit, gently guide me into all truth. And when I know the truth, the truth will set me free!

Good Grief: Why I Can't Simply "Count It All Joy"

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness” (James 1:2-3 ESV).

Growing up in the church, I heard this passage oft quoted when someone was grieved or struggling. Unfortunately, it’s a common theme among believers that grief over heartache or suffering must be short-lived if we are to prove our trust in God.

When we encounter trials, we may find it acceptable to shed a few tears, but then (if we are really mature) we pull up our “big girl pants” and push the feelings away under the title of “Trusting that God has a plan” and that “He will work all things out for good.”

I have been exposed to this process so repetitively that it has become ingrained in my mind and heart as a pattern to follow. Deep emotions are uncomfortable. They are uncomfortable to me and uncomfortable for others. If I’m really trusting God, I won’t continue to grieve, right?

Ironically, I don’t believe that’s what James intended from these verses. He goes on to say that we should allow steadfastness (or perseverance) have its full effect so that we may be mature and complete and lacking nothing. This perseverance does not mean (as many like to translate) pushing forward in our faith and pushing our emotions away. In the Greek, it is translated “hupomone’” – “hypo” meaning under and “meno” meaning to remain or endure. Strongs HELPS Word-studies goes on to explain that this is a God-empowered ability given to those who believe in him to “’remain (endure) under’ the challenges He allots in life.” Obviously, we are not being instructed to remove ourselves from the trial by our own efforts of trusting in God.

Peter echoes James’ sentiments in 1 Peter chapter 1, but I believe, though oft less quoted, he is more clear in the way he communicates. Peter begins by laying a foundational vision of the hope we have in Christ, the power and grace of his glory and the promises we can rest assured of. He then continues. “In this you rejoice, [comparable to James’ admonition to count it all joy] though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials” (1 Peter 1:6). Hold on a second. Peter brings up the reality of the emotion in the midst of the trials. We have been grieved!  This word “grief” in the Greek is “lupeo” – which means to experience deep emotional pain, sorrow, intense sadness. (Ladies, it’s the same word that’s used to describe the pain of childbirth – how is that for a visual?)

But Peter doesn’t stop there. He continues that this grief (not the “choice” to count it all joy) is so that the tested genuineness of our faith may bring Christ all the praise and the glory. And that’s our ultimate aim, right? As believers, we are called to image and glorify Christ on this earth – not ourselves. I’ve found that if I put forth my own effort to trust God, I am denying the power of God in my life and, in my pride, believing that I have what it takes to live the life of faith.  However, if I’m willing to patiently endure the process of sorrow (by the grace that God supplies), to walk through each phase with him, I will experience his comfort, his peace, his presence in ways that were never possible when I was choosing to “count it all joy” and remove myself from feeling those deep emotions. Ultimately, He will get the glory – not me – when he brings me to the other side full of inexpressible and glorious joy!

This concept goes against everything that has been ingrained in me for so long. Grief typically = tears. And I don’t like tears so much – at least not my own. Tears, in our culture, are translated as weakness. I’m a strong person if I can hold myself together. Now, tears are okay for babies, for kids, but I am a grown up. I shouldn’t cry, should I?

I came across this video as I was processing through this concept, and it opened my eyes to why crying may be a positive and not a negative. The Healing Power of Tears

Dr. William Frey, a biochemist at Ramsey Medical center in Minneapolis, studied the composition of different tears and discovered that emotional tears are comprised of water, salt, and stress hormones. Isn’t it amazing that God created our bodies with the wonderful ability to rid our physical systems of these stress chemicals? Tears serve both an emotional and a physical purpose! Tears are good.

But what if visiting the pain again or allowing myself to feel the grief and sorrow causes emotions or questions that go against what I should believe to be true? I love the way Priscilla Shirer addresses these concerns. Check this out: When You Are Going Through A Lot

So, my friends, I’m learning that it’s not wrong to feel. It’s actually okay to cry. Jesus, at the tomb of Lazarus, wept! He didn’t simply shed a couple of tears and move on. He was deeply moved in spirit and he mourned along with the other Jews at the graveside. Does this mean that Jesus didn’t believe the truth of who he was? Was he not solid in his identity? Did he not know what he was about to do? Absolutely not. He was fully God, yet he chose to be fully human. And in that moment, he suffered grief of a kind that we are all well acquainted with.

When I’m willing to endure through the grief, rather than escaping it, Jesus can come to me and comfort me in ways I would never know otherwise. And with that comfort, I can comfort others in their own struggle. This is the body of Christ. This is our purpose as a church – not to shore up ourselves to be stronger in our faith, but to allow Christ to come strengthen our faith in the struggle.

Grief is for our good.

It’s in the wrestling that we are made stronger.

Weeping may endure for the night, but great joy comes in the morning!

Don't Go It Alone: How Hiding our Hurts Opens us to Enemy Influence

I feel the threat of attacks rising as the sun tempts to rise over the horizon. Lies of the enemy just waiting to push buttons of temptation. Anything he can do to keep me from basking in the glory of the Son and reflecting that glory to the world around me. When you feel isolated, your reflection only goes so far. And when one person feels like they aren’t even reaching another, they ask what’s the point? We were made in the image of God – in the likeness of the trinity – with an innate need for fellowship. And when that need goes unmet, we easily distort our perceptions of reality into contortions similar to mirrors in the funny house. Nothing makes sense, we don’t know which way is up or which way to turn. Confused and exhausted, it’s easy to ask, what’s the point? And desire to give up completely.

But the truth is, we are never alone. Never. For one, He has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” He is here. Always. And not only is he here, but his arms are open wide and he invites us into his loving embrace. Not condemning. Not chiding. Simply loving, forgiving, encouraging us on this difficult journey.

Secondly, we are being watched – by someone. Constantly. Spouse, kids, parents, siblings, social media contacts, the cashier at the grocery store, the person driving in the car next to you, the barista at starbucks, the teacher, the student, the patient, the coach, the athlete, the boss, the employee. And they too, each one of them is longing for connection whether they realize it or not. Naturally, as humans, we reach toward each other, even those we don’t know simply to be reminded that we are as human as they are. Each eye that watches you looks to catch a glimpse that there is maybe, possibly, more to this life than just surviving. They are looking for hope. They are looking to you. They are looking to me. No, we are not alone, we are very much surrounded.

But our enemy secures our blinders and makes sure we keep our eyes down so that we don’t make those connections. He wants us to feel alone. As Lysa Terkeurst says about our enemy, “If he can isolate us, he can influence us” (It’s Not Supposed to Be This Way, 150). Satan wants his voice to be the loudest sound we hear. Lies like: You’re a failure. You’re not good enough. You’re too much. It’s not worth it. Just give up. His purposes are clearly lined out in scripture. He has come to steal, kill, and destroy (John 10:10). And what better way to steal our joy, kill our hope, and destroy our effectiveness than to bring us to a point of isolation and despair.

John 10:10 doesn’t stop there. Jesus goes on to say, “But I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” Life - made a living being, coming directly from the breath of God breathed into Adam and has been breathing into us by the power of his Spirit ever since. We are living creatures, Imago Dei – made in the likeness of God – and as such we are made for relationship. But when we hide due to our hurts, our wounds, and our fears, when we struggle with concern over what others think of our hearts, we isolate ourselves and open that door to being influenced by the enemy again.

Our Christian culture has convinced us that its most holy to be joyful (or at least be okay) with the difficulties. James 1 is oft quoted when trials arise, “Count it all joy.” And yes, that is our obligation – eventually. The problem arises when we don’t allow time for grief. Jesus wept over the death of Lazarus (even though he knew the truth of who He was and what he was about to do.) Jesus again mourned over Jerusalem (though he was about it rescue all who believed in Him through his sacrifice.) “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crusted in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). And in Romans 12, we are instructed to weep with those who weep.

Life hurts. It’s hard. This sin stained place is suspended between the fall of Paradise and the not yet fully redeemed. And it’s okay to grieve that. Grief, is good. Tears heal. Your wound may not look like mine, but that doesn't make it any less significant. Now may be my time for weeping. Now may be yours. Joy will come in the morning (maybe tomorrow, maybe days from now.) And the truth is, in the midst of our sorrow, we can still trust that God is good, that he works all things for good, and that He loves us. Oh, how he loves us.

For now, if you’re here (or if you’ve been here, but you’ve been encouraged to move on too quickly), I encourage you to stay for a while. Linger. Allow the feelings to surface, and pour out your heart to God – He is our refuge (Psalm 62:8) and he cares so very much for each little (or big) thing that has wounded his children’s hearts. Don’t stay alone in your pain. Share it with a friend. Talk to a counselor if you need to. Close the door to isolation, and close the door on the enemy’s influence. Jesus is Jehovah Rophe’ – our healer. And he will see to it that your wounds are well tended.

Friends, if someone opens up to you about their pain, listen, don’t preach. It’s okay for us to grieve. It’s okay for it to hurt. We can be sorrowful yet joyful in the hope of God’s glory at the same time. It is possible! Let’s get back to living life to the full like Jesus intended – in true fellowship with one another!

It's a(nother) BOY!

I very much disliked being at church today. From the trite responses to the sympathetic looks about our news of our 6^th boy on the way, to how I felt like I had to justify our decision to be done to some and defend our decision to continue having kids to this point to others, I rapidly grew exhausted of the game. I didn’t feel freedom to be completely honest with anyone I encountered today, and that fact alone makes church so hard. When I feel like I have to wear a mask around our church family, there’s just something that seems wrong about that. Family should equate to authenticity. Unfortunately, many times heavier masks are worn in the church setting than anywhere outside of it. And we continue to suffer in silence. If you grieve, you’re not trusting God or being joyful, right?

So, I’ve started wondering, what would it look like to take mine off: to decide that I’m rooted enough in who I am in Christ and in where he has led us in our decisions that it doesn’t matter the response we get, to be willing to answer honestly when I’m asked about disappointment with another boy, to take the time to explain the journey Christ has my heart on now, and if the tears come, allow them to willingly. What I’ve always thought as strength – holding it all together – is really just fear of man. Choosing rather to be who I am, where I am, dealing with what I am and being willing to share that no matter the outcome – that is true strength.

From the moment we found out we were pregnant again, I had a gut feeling that we were having another boy. That first day, when we saw the positive test, we easily agreed on his name: Nathaniel Benjamin – Treasured gift of God, son of my right hand. I joked with friends early on that we were probably having another boy – that’s our trend, right? Why change a good thing? I reasoned that I would deal with strong emotions either way – another boy would be easier. I had everything I needed. I wouldn’t need to re-learn to parent. And having a girl brought up certain concerns as well – namely her safety as she grew up in this crazy world. Yes, a boy would just be simpler. But my heart still leaked longing for some pink in my house, some bows, some frills, some glitter – something other than sheer male energy, dirt, bugs, sports, wrestling, “bad-guys”, and things constantly randomly getting broken. Don’t get me wrong. I love all of those things (well, minus things getting broken). I love my sons with all of my heart, but a piece of me still longed for that girl – to be able to share just a piece of my feminine side and have it innately understood and appreciated.

Twenty weeks came, and with it our ultrasound. We didn’t get a clear picture of parts, but the tech thought she saw boy parts. I took this as a definite maybe and began to process the news. But since we weren’t 100% convinced, we did a blood test to verify her assumption. The results came back on Thursday – 100% boy!

I am so excited that we are adding Nathaniel to our family. I’m thrilled that I won’t have to buy anything extra, that we won’t wind up with a double amount of toys in the house, that we are familiar with having sons, that we can look forward to many challenging adventures in the days to come, that Jeshua will have a male playmate close in age. But that’s where it gets complicated – we’ve been seeking God about our family size. We’ve been seeking wisdom. We’ve emptied ourselves of our own desires and asked God what his desire is for our family. After much prayer and conversation, we’ve determined that this is our number: six boys to raise for the glory of God. We long to be faithful with what he has blessed us with, and we feel like God has other ministry opportunities on the horizon for our family. With that in mind, six young men to change the world is God’s best for us. So that means this is it. This is the end of that subtle longing for a girl. I’m closing the door on this chapter. People ask if I’d like to try again, and in all honesty, my answer is no. I don’t feel God calling us to that. Not to mention, we very well might have another boy anyway if we did try.

We’ve never “tried” for a girl. We’ve had this many kids because we felt like God was leading us to have this many. And obviously, he wanted us to have six sons. I’m okay with that. Yet, this is where my joy turns bittersweet. The tears well up, fill my eyes and spill over as I consider things I will never get to enjoy with a biological daughter.

I grieve over never having the opportunity to look in my child’s eyes and see a tangible piece of myself. (Everyone claims all the boys look like Jared.) I grieve over the thought of missed tea parties, princess parties, and playing house with dolls. I grieve over never having the opportunity to teach a daughter about modesty, being a lady, shaving, periods, never getting the opportunity to go wedding dress shopping with a girl. I grieve not being able to welcome my daughter into the role of motherhood herself, over not having a kindred spirit to share our hearts over coffee or tea, over missing out on girly shopping in general. I grieve over not having chick flick nights. I grieve over not having hair to braid or teach about the deeper beauty that resides on the inside. I grieve over lost sparkles, frills, and twirling. I grieve over not having a daughter to share my heirlooms with – dolls and treasures. I grieve over hopes built up over years, clothes thoughtfully chosen “just in case.” I grieve over not being able to share my name or my grandmother’s name with a child. I grieve over hopes and dreams that are being washed away as the tears wash down my cheeks.

Out of all of this, I’ve realized that it’s really okay to feel this way. It doesn’t mean that I love my son any less. My tears don’t show some underlying weakness. And even if I hid it all, pushed it away, lived in logic and told myself to be okay, God wouldn’t be tricked by my mask or façade. He sees and knows my heart and my very deepest longings – he’s the one who put them there in the first place. He cares that my heart is breaking. He cares that I feel there’s a hole that will never be filled. He takes my tears and places them in a bottle (Psalm 56:8). The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Psalm 34:18). There is a time for grief (Ecclesiastes 3:4). And now is that time for me. But I can also be encouraged by the fact that weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning (Psalm 30:5).

In the meantime, friends, if you see tears in my eyes when I talk about my son, give me grace. If you see me swallow hard when I see a pretty girly dress, a little girl twirling, or a princess tea party, just know that it hurts a little. If I hesitate when you ask if I’m disappointed, just know that there’s so much more to the story. And if I cry, just give me a hug. I’ll be okay. I know God’s got this. I trust him. And in the meantime, I will continue to pour out my heart to him – God is my refuge (Psalm 62:8). 

Grieve: Face to Face with Eyes Open

It’s really easy to want to close my eyes and turn away. Much easier than looking into the face of the paradoxical Father of all Comfort. For if I recall the two most important words my pastor admonished me to never forget, I wonder how God’s sovereignty and his love can truly coincide. Always remember, he said. No matter what, “God is sovereign, and He loves me.” But the sovereign God who loves me who would cause my soul such anguish at loss makes me question this love. Severe Mercy. He whispers in my ear. It is a severe mercy that he took my Grandmother when he did. Severe to my own soul and the soul of my family – a piercing of everything that we held dear and true, a cutting through and cutting off of something, someone rather, that we held so dearly near to our hearts. Mercy toward the one taken. Great mercy. Mercy that she is out of this chaotic and frightful world. Mercy that she is rejoicing in the presence of the Savior. Mercy that I cannot comprehend.

God is Sovereign. His control is supreme. And yet he does things that confuse me – even confound me. Or he doesn’t do things that confuse me even further. Job was more righteous than I as he proclaimed that the Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. He didn’t go in search for answers. Simply the knowledge that God was in control was enough. Oh that my soul could find such rest.

God loves me. Nothing can separate me from it. Height, depth, present, future, angels, demons, death, life – no, none can sever that tender love and compassion. It is because of his great love for me that I am not consumed, for his compassions never fail. (Lam 3:22).

When more questions rage than answers and my soul is faint at sorrow. I must remember. I must. Though a mystery to my eyes bound by earth’s dimensions. God is Sovereign. And he loves me.

And I open my tear-filled eyes to gaze at my Savior. I see tears in his eyes as well. I know you do not understand right now, my child. I care. I’m sorry this broken world has caused you such sorrow. His heart breaks for me. I see the tender compassion as he looks deep into my heart. Continue to grieve my child. I will hold every tear. I will take every question. Grieve. I am here. Grieve face to face with eyes open. Looking to Jesus, the author and perfector of my faith… I am sovereign, and I love you more than you know!

Grieve: Face to Face

I always looked forward to taking family pictures. I loved seeing the smiling faces and how our number seemed to exponentially increase each year – that’s what happens when you are one of five siblings. Each year, new babies or new bellies getting ready for the forthcoming child. The excitement of a new family photo was only diminished by trying to fit everyone in and keeping the littles smiling and looking at the camera. No bunny ears, please! Pictures, always joy – that is until this year. When our number, rather than increase, has decreased by one number. Our faithful matriarch met her Savior on Thanksgiving day. My grandmother, with Jesus rather than with us. It seemed so unfair! And just like that death has hit our family!

It seems surreal and removed when it happens to someone else. I try to sympathize, be present or involved. But it’s hard, and maybe you’re like me and would rather distance yourself because you don’t understand death: it’s unnatural. We as humans do everything we can to stay alive – and then something like this happens, something I cannot control, something that is as certain as tomorrow, but is ambiguous and overwhelming at best.

I try to run, but you can’t. Try to hide, but the thickest covers only suffocate the soul. Gasping for fresh air, maybe try to be strong. Some in the church would say that is the appropriate response to grief. Go numb for a while, look for distractions – those are easy to come by these days…facebook, anyone? Being distracted is easier than trying to figure out what my heart is really dealing with, anyhow. But the dyke of distraction can only hold back the flood of emotion so long. Something sparks a memory, and the tears break through. Emotions, overwhelming and threatening rage as fierce as a storm.

Questions are raised. Questions that haven’t come to the surface for years – the reality of mortality, my own and others, the questions of eternity and wanting to know that I know…..A new hunger for understanding the heavenly realm and longing to feel the nearness of Christ. But grief is a process, and I found myself in a battle – a battle of trying to be strong, to push through, deal with my anger, bitterness, rage, questions and finally land at some point of acceptance and move on. At least that’s what Elizabeth Kubler-Ross said should happen. Maybe they’re fluid and dynamic, but there’s a certain process to grief. After losing my first child and my grandfather within two days of each other and now my grandmother, I’m not so sure any more.

I’ve found myself at a crossroads of sort – and it’s a choice I must make. I can go on like I have been in my own strength and futilely attempting to control and direct my emotions. Or I can turn and gaze into the face of the one who is a Man of Sorrows and acquainted with grief. So often, I find myself turning my back on Comfort, himself. I run away from Peace seeking some sort of artificial replacement in this world. Surely he has borne my sorrows. After all, he holds my tears in a bottle.  Why should I be scared to allow him to see and hold my hurting heart? Why should I deny the pain of loss on this earth? Jesus Christ was familiar with the sting of death. He withdrew to grieve for a time on hearing of John the Baptist’s death. He wept at Lazarus grave. And his bloody sweat ran down his face as he was in agony over his own death. He soul rend and torn so that I, we, could find ultimate comfort in Him – the Prince of Peace.

It’s true. Death is not natural or normal. It was not a part of original design, but a part of the curse. I can rage over these things righteously. For my Savior grieves in the same way. When I look up into his face, tears clouding my eyes, I see the gentlest compassion and deepest mercy. The very nearness of Christ brings light and helps me to understand how his heart breaks with mine. And now I can see clearly too, the tears that fill his eyes as well.