Imagine that you are sitting in a prison cell. This is not some posh or even stark 21st-century prison cell, but a primitive Roman one. Your back is pressed against cold stones. Your stomach is aching with hunger. Your nose is assaulted by terrible smells. Your heart is filled with despair. You know your death must be fast approaching.

And then, somewhere off in the distance you begin to hear the sound of singing. You realize this song is not coming from outside the walls but from within, not from visitors but from inmates. As you listen you realize these were the men who were dragged in the previous evening, men who were arrested, beaten, and jailed for freeing a woman from oppression and professing the name of Jesus Christ. You realize that their song is a kind of dirge, a complaint against man and God alike. In a minor key it expresses frustration with God for these circumstances and pronounces curses on their enemies. It blames God for failing to prevent this expression of his providence and tiptoes perilously close to cursing his name. Though you had heard of this God and been intrigued by some of what you had learned, you can now feel your interest waning and your heart turning.

But we should stop and rewrite our story a little bit because this is not what happened in Acts 16 where we read of Paul and Silas being accosted and assaulted and imprisoned. Though they had done nothing worse than free a woman from oppression, they were severely flogged and confined to the darkest of dungeons—the very place I’ve told you to imagine yourself. And in that dungeon they began to pray and sing—to sing songs that flowed out of their love for their God, their confidence in his gospel, and their hope in his purposes. Let’s pick up our corrected version of this story.

Somewhere off in the distance you begin to hear the sound of singing. You realize that this song is not a dirge, not a complaint, not an imprecation, but a song of praise, a song of joy, a song of triumph. It is not in a minor key but a major key and tells not of defeat but of victory. Along with the other prisoners you listen, some perhaps out of mere curiosity but surely others because they are intrigued. When so many inmates have turned their back on their god, why do these men continue to express their love for theirs? And what is it in these dark circumstances that compels them to continue to trust him and continue to sing his praises? As you listen, you feel your heart stirring, your sorrows lifting, your hope rising.

There is something holy, something attractive, something magnetic about those who praise God in their sorrows, about those who sing songs in the night and praise God in the darkest of valleys. In fact, I believe eternity will prove that often the reason God has seen fit to permit such sorrows is that he means for his people to prove to a skeptical world and to wavering saints alike that faith can survive the greatest of shocks, that love for God will endure even the greatest of losses, that God’s people ultimately love him for who he is, not for what he has given them. God means for his people to prove that they will love him whatever his providence dictates and however it directs.

So this is the sacred calling given to those who suffer—to lift trembling hands, to raise tear-stained eyes, to sing with wavering voice, to praise God as much in taking as in the giving. This is the sacred calling that proclaims that love for God will survive any trial. This is the sacred calling that brings great glory to his name.

It is inevitable that we face times of difficulty and impossible that we escape them altogether. To be born is to suffer and to live is to endure all manner of trouble and trial. Just as none of us escapes death, none of us escapes all hardships.

And when we face such hardships, we invariably long to overcome them. We want to get past them, through them, over them, around them—whatever it takes for them to come to as quick an end as possible. Yet it does not take us long in the Christian life to learn that God means for us to get something from our hardships—he wants us to gain something precious and obtain something valuable. And sometimes this means the hardships will persist for a long time or even for the rest of our days on earth.

One of the pearls of wisdom that has served me well in life and that has been both challenging and comforting is this: Suffering always comes bearing a gift. It comes bearing a gift of God’s blessing if only we will seek for it like silver and search for it like hidden treasure.

We can believe suffering comes bearing a gift because it does not come apart from God’s will, and his will for us is always good. There is nothing in the will of God that is ultimately to the detriment of his children and so there is nothing in the providence of God that is ultimately to our harm. To the contrary, he has promised that all things—even very difficult things—are in some way working for our good (Romans 8:28).

This being the case, we can receive our suffering with a sense of reverence and expectation. We can receive it even with a heart of welcome and begin to look for the blessing it will bring to us. This is not to say we revel in our hurts or celebrate our trials, but it is to say that we can “rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope” (Romans 5:3–4). Suffering is fertile soil in which character grows and trials are dark skies and heavy rains that cause the Spirit’s fruit to burst into life. In so many ways we become who and what we long to be not apart from suffering but through it.

The reason many Christians find so little comfort in their trials is that they do not accept them as coming from God and therefore do not expect to receive any blessing from them. They wish only to be released from their sorrows and healed from their wounds as soon as possible. But those who receive them with a heart of welcome—even a heart-broken heart of welcome—and those who search diligently for God’s gift in them—even through eyes glazed with tears—will find that God has placed his richest blessings within our deepest wounds. As we entrust our sorrows to him, we find that he has first entrusted them to us. He has assigned to us these sorrows so we can in turn consecrate them to him. He means for us to faithfully steward them, confident that they will guide us into deeper submission to his purposes and deeper conformity to his Son.

Inspired in part by the writings of J.R. Miller

We all long for lives that are easy. We pray for roads that are smooth, seas that are calm, flights that are untroubled by turbulence. Yet our experience of life is so very different. The road is often narrow and winding, the seas often stormy, the skies often bumpy. And we wonder why—why doesn’t God decree an easier life, a less difficult journey to glory?

He is not silent in the face of such questions. Rather, he assures us that he makes use of difficulties and that they are good and even necessary for our sanctification. He uses them to shape us, to mold us, and to equip us for greater service. He assures us that his purposes do not end at the point that our trials begin, but rather pass through those trials and make the highest use of them.

We cannot escape temptation. If the devil tempted Christ, he will most certainly tempt those who follow Christ. But by God’s grace, we can meet temptations and pass through them in such a way that we remain unmarred and unbroken. We can pass through them in such a way that we emerge with renewed strength, restored faith, and increased confidence in the preserving power of the Holy Spirit. God uses temptation for good!

We cannot escape chastisement, for our Father loves us too much to allow us to remain immature and undisciplined. But with confidence that he is our kind Father, we can receive even these rebukes as proof of our adoption and proof of his love. We can accept them as a means of growth, a means of refinement, a means of purification. And with that in mind, we can rejoice even in pain, even in sorrow, for God is at work within us. He uses chastisement for good!

We cannot escape bereavement. None of our loved ones is immortal and immune to all harm and therefore none of our loved ones will ultimately avoid death. We will need to say goodbye to ones we have loved and need to press on without the presence of ones we have lost. But we are to bear such sorrows without being crushed by them, we are to endure them without being defeated by them. For God uses them to help us grow in sympathy toward others and to grow in our ability to minister to them. He uses them to increase our longing for the place in which we will never again suffer loss. God uses bereavement for good!

We cannot escape persecution, for if our Savior endured the wrath of sinful men, we too will suffer their wrath, for we are called to follow in his footsteps. But in persecution we can rejoice, we can sing for joy, we can marvel that we have been counted worthy to suffer dishonor for the name of Christ. We can do all this knowing that God uses our suffering to shore up the faith of those who may be wavering, to prove the tenacity of our faith before a doubting world, and to bring great glory to his name. God uses persecution for good!

The fact is, we cannot escape trials of every kind. We are too weak and this world is too broken to escape all difficulties. But with God’s help we can escape their futility, we can escape their power to defeat and destroy us. With His help we can receive those difficulties as falling within the bounds of his sovereignty, we can receive them as his will for us, and we can receive them as an opportunity to grow in godly character and persevere in godly hope.

In all our sorrows and all our afflictions, in our trials and all our losses, we can have confidence that God never means to destroy us and never means to ultimately harm us. To the contrary, he means to purify us and use us, to expand our capacity to love, to prepare and equip us for greater service. It is always his will that we pass through these fires refined but unburned, purified but unharmed, sanctified but unscarred. For God uses them all for good.

It is something you tend to hear a lot when you have endured a time of significant sorrow or suffering: “I know it’s nothing compared to yours, but…” We have a natural tendency to compare—to compare our experiences to another person’s and to rank or rate them accordingly. The person who has suffered the loss of a job feels awkward when speaking to someone who has suffered the loss of a spouse, the person who has suffered the loss of a parent to someone who has suffered the loss of a child.

Of course, the comparison can go two ways. It can be a comparison from the lesser to the greater where one person expresses their sorrow, but also insists that theirs must be smaller. “Who am I to grieve the loss of my job when you have lost your spouse?” Or it can be a comparison from the greater to the lesser, where someone expresses their sorrow in such a way that it makes another person’s seem wrong or inappropriate. “Who are you to grieve the loss of your mother when I have lost my daughter?”

Yet I am convinced there is little benefit in comparing sorrow. No one gains comfort by diminishing their grief in relation to another person’s. Likewise, no one gains comfort by amplifying their grief in relation to another person’s. Grief deserves comfort, but comparison is not comforting.

And that is because grief is an appropriate response to difficult circumstances. The loss of a job truly is sad and the loss of a parent truly is heartbreaking. Yes we do well to maintain some sense of proportion so that we do not mourn the loss of a pet to the degree that we mourn the loss of a spouse, but every grief is a consequence of humanity’s fall into sin and a part of living in a broken world. In every grief we lament not only the circumstance but also the greater reality of the brokenness of this world and the brokenness of our own selves. These things hurt because they are hurtful, we grieve them because they are grievous. It is right and appropriate to feel and express our sorrows without amplifying or diminishing the weight of them.

We would do well to learn from our God who is compassionate to us in our sorrows. The Father does not diminish our sorrows by saying, “Has the entirety of humanity ever sinned against you? Have you ever created people in your image and then seen them commit treason against you?” Christ does not diminish our sorrows by saying, “Have you ever been crucified? Have you ever faced the wrath of the Father?” The Spirit does not diminish our sorrows by saying, “Have you ever been sinned against by people you have lovingly chosen to indwell?” Our Triune God is fully compassionate despite witnessing atrocities far beyond any we can imagine and despite being sinned against in ways we cannot even comprehend. He is compassionate to us in our grief—as compassionate as a Father toward his children.

It is right and fitting to grieve our griefs and lament our losses. And we can do so without comparison, without diminishment or amplification. For every grief is grievous. Every grief is a consequence of sin. And every grief directs our hearts and transfers our gaze to that place where there will be no more grief, no more sorrow, and no more loss.

There are many ways we may respond to the sudden onrush of some new pain or the sudden onset of some fresh sorrow. There are many options set before us when health fails and uncertainty draws near, when wealth collapses and bankruptcy looms, when a loved one is taken and we are left alone. There are many forks in the road, many paths we can choose when we face such heavy trials. Some who seemed to be living so well grow angry at God and man, then sink into bitterness. Some who seemed to be so strong in their faith grow despondent, then stop pressing on. Some who seemed to be so vibrant grow dull and disillusioned, perhaps shrugging off a God who would ask them to pass through a dark valley.

But there are others who respond to their trials in different ways, and it’s these people who have so often blessed, encouraged, and inspired me. These people have understood that God’s sovereignty is active in and through their pain and that somehow even this trial fits within his providence. They have understood that through their time of sorrow, God has given them a kind of platform, an opportunity to glorify his name. And they have willingly accepted and embraced it.

One friend was told he had a form of cancer that was usually fatal. He used every treatment and every hill and valley to proclaim his trust in Jesus to the doctors, nurses, and his friends. When told he had only a short time left to live, he made it his purpose to give his last days to calling his Christian friends to encourage them in their faith one last time and to calling his non-Christian friends to tell them about Jesus one last time. “After all,” he told me, “everyone will listen to a dying man.” His suffering gave him a platform and he used it to proclaim the glories of God.

Another friend saw his daughter suddenly struck down by a terrible and mysterious illness. Though this was a heavy blow for him and for his family, he diligently wrote dispatches from the hospital that went out to believers and unbelievers alike. In them he expressed his confusion but also his trust, his sorrow but also his faith. His time of agony was also a time of proclamation. He ministered to others even when he was suffering so deeply.

Generations have benefitted from the books and poems of Amy Carmichael, most of which were written from her sickbed—her sickbed that doubled as her podium before the world. Millions have heard Joni Eareckson Tada speak and sing of the glories of God—Joni, whose entire public ministry has been carried out from a wheelchair. Both embraced their circumstances as a God-given platform. There was pain, to be certain. There was sorrow and toil. But there was also opportunity.

We grieve our losses, of course, whether that’s the loss of health, wealth, ability, or loved ones. We rightly weep and mourn. And we certainly don’t wish for those times of darkness to come upon us. But because we are never outside the providence of God, we can have confidence that we are never outside the purpose of God. We can understand that God has purpose in our pain and we can know that in even our darkest moments and hardest days, we can praise and glorify his name. We can know that his providence has given us a platform, whether it is from the heights of joy or the depths of sorrow, whether it is before many people or few. And surely it is only right that we use it to tell of his goodness and grace.

I have often heard it said that Romans 8:28 is the wrong verse to bring to the attention of those who are grieving, that while it is true in our especially difficult moments, it does not necessarily become helpful until some time has passed. And while I can only speak for myself, it has been my experience that in my lowest moments I have feasted on Romans 8:28, I have run to it like a starving man runs to a meal and I have drunk from it like a parched man drinks from an oasis. I have needed Romans 8:28 and it has both comforted my soul and directed my grief.

The verse says, “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” It is for good reason that this is one of the most familiar verses in the entire Bible and for good reason that so many have memorized it. And I wonder if you have ever paused to consider a world without Romans 8:28?

Without Romans 8:28 we would not have confidence that our experiences in this world “work … for good.” We might believe that some of what we experience works for harm, that Satan and God are cosmically slugging it out with first one and then the other gaining the upper hand. We might be tempted to believe that some of what we experience works for nothing, that there is an arbitrary element to life in which things happen that have no purpose, no meaning, and no redemption. We might gaze at our sorrows and sufferings and think, “There is no goodness in this and no way goodness could ever come from this.”

Without Romans 8:28 we would not have confidence that “all” things work for good. We might believe that some of the things we experience ultimately work for good while others ultimately work for our harm. Or we might believe that some things work for good while other things are empty and meaningless, black holes in God’s providence.

Without Romans 8:28 we might not see the hand of God working in our suffering, for where things “work together for good,” there must be someone who is working them. Work requires a worker! We might assume, as do so many today, that an impersonal force like the universe is ultimately behind our circumstances. We might even assume that there is no deity and no intelligent being who acts out his providence within this universe, but just cold impersonal fate.

Without Romans 8:28 we might neglect to meditate on the fact that our purpose in this world is to serve God’s purpose—that we have been “called according to his purpose.” We might fail to ponder the truth that if we are called to experience trials it is because God has purposes to accomplish through them and that we can bring glory to him if we meet these trials and pass through them with our faith strong and intact.

Without Romans 8:28 our suffering would be intolerable and we might rightly conclude that our sorrows are meaningless.

But we do have Romans 8:28. God has given it to us a gift of his grace. Of course, we need to exercise good judgment when we bring comfort to God’s people as they suffer. Of course, we need to choose the truth that fits the circumstance. Of course, we need to ensure we are not forcing a harsh or inaccurate interpretation of the passage as so many have done with this verse. But as for me, there are few verses more comforting and more encouraging than this one.

Because Romans 8:28 exists, those who love God and are loved by him can have confidence that he is working through all of life’s circumstances to bring good out of bad, light out of darkness, joy out of sorrow. It’s not that God is especially agile, a kind of cosmic PR man adept at manipulating circumstances, but rather that he is the Planner, the Engineer, the Designer who has ordained the means just as much as the end. He ordains the calm and the storm, the darkness and the dawn, the famine and the feast. This being the case, no event is meaningless, no situation purposeless, no condition ultimately hopeless. God is working out his good will not despite dark days, difficult trials, and broken hearts, but through them. Such circumstances are the raw material he uses to form and shape his good plans, his perfect purposes.

God’s specialty is not bringing good from good, but good from bad and Romans 8:28 gently tells me that if I trust him through my tears, he will give me reason to laugh; if I trust him through my pain, he will teach me to praise; if I trust him through my grief, he will afterwards show me all the good that came with it and through it. He will show me the precious flowers in the dry desert, the beautiful blooms against the sharp thorns, the gentle petals beneath the vicious skies. For behind every black cloud is a yellow sun, behind every dark night a bright day, behind every frowning providence a smiling face—the smiling face of the God who works all things for good for those who love him and are called according to his purpose.¹

1. The final two paragraphs are adapted from Seasons of Sorrow. ↩︎

There are many different ways to chart the journey through life. We can do it in life stages, like childhood to adulthood to middle age to old age. We can do it in decades, like teens to twenties to thirties and so on. But lately I’ve been pondering the passing of the generations, how when we are young we lose our grandparents, and then when we are a bit older we lose our parents, until finally we come to the stage when our own generation begins to fade—when we have to bid farewell to the people we counted as friends and peers.

In the past few years, I have watched a number of dear friends grapple with terrible and ultimately terminal illnesses. I have watched people I only ever knew to be whole and strong fade until they were broken and weak. I have watched them accept the reality that their time was short and the Lord was calling them home. And through it all, I’m convinced that I’ve seen their faith shine all the brighter. I’ve seen an inner beauty and an inner glory that has become all the more evident as everything outside has been slowly pulled off and peeled away.

I want you to imagine that you are walking toward the Old Testament tabernacle, that you are seeing and experiencing it for the very first time. The twelve tribes of Israel are camped in a great rectangle all around it—millions of people, hundreds of thousands of tents, countless cattle. In the center of it all is a clearing and within that clearing is the tabernacle.

As you approach it, you can see the outer wall which is made up of plainly-colored curtains supported by bronze stands. The people and the priests are coming and going through an entrance that faces east. The outside of the tabernacle is noble and dignified, but hardly impressive.

As you pass through the entrance, you now find yourself in the outer courtyard. Here you see the great bronze altar billowing with smoke. Nearby is a bronze laver where the priests carry out their ceremonial washings. You stand for a few moments and observe the structure of the tabernacle tent, and while you know it is made up of four layers, you can mostly see only the practical outer layer. This courtyard is a place of bronze and silver. It is impressive, but not stunning.

And now you know it is time to pass into the Holy Place. (For the sake of the illustration, we’ll have to suppose you are somehow permitted to do so.) You walk past the great columns of gold that support the veil and inside you see the lampstand, the altar of incense, and the table for the showbread, all of it covered in gold. The walls are made up of vertical wooden frames and horizontal wooden bars, all overlaid with gold. Ahead of you is the veil guarding the entrance to the Most Holy Place. This veil is blue and purple and scarlet and fine twined linen, and woven into it with the most precious thread is the image of the cherubim, the angelic guardians. Looking above, you admire the precious inner covering that contrasts sharply with the practical outer covering you saw from the courtyard. If the courtyard is a place of bronze and silver, this is a place of gold. It evokes awe within.

There is just one more step to take. Parting that great curtain you walk into the Holy of Holies and gasp at the beauty of the Ark of the Covenant with the ornately carved cherubim stretching out their wings over the mercy seat. This room is beautifully ornate, every surface made of either precious gold or exquisite cloth. Best of all, the glory of God is tangible here, visible and undeniable, for this is the place where God lives, where God has chosen to dwell among his people. This is a place of gold and of glory. You can only fall on your face in wonder and worship.

And later, as you ponder what you have seen, you consider this: The best of the beauty is in the hidden places. In fact, the deeper you go into the tabernacle, the more precious the contents. The more you peel away layer after layer of the tabernacle, the greater the beauty and the greater the glory.

And this is exactly what I have observed as my friends have grown ill, as their strength has faded, as their bodies have failed. As more and more layers of strength and health have been peeled away, the beauty and the glory within have shone all the brighter—the glory of God displayed in the beauty of a sanctified life, the beauty of a submitted heart, the beauty of a satisfied soul. I have seen the glory of the Lord as he shines in the place he now chooses to dwell—not in a tabernacle made of gold and cloth, but a tabernacle made of body and soul. And as the body and soul have prepared to part for a time, it has shone all the more, all the brighter. I have seen and I have known: the glory of God is in this place.

(Inspired in part by the writings of J.R. Miller)

In January of 2023, Tim Keesee and I set out on a journey—a journey that has since taken us around the world. Together we have visited twenty-odd countries spread across all six inhabited continents. But before we embarked on that journey, Tim had found himself a traveler on a very different journey—a journey through cancer. And that is the subject of his new book A Day’s Journey.

Yet this is not just a memoir of diagnosis, treatment, and prognosis. As he tells his own story, Tim reflects on the importance of days, the passing of time, the companions he encountered, and the friends and family members who helped shoulder his load. The most prominent section, though, is the one devoted to telling other people’s stories.

In this section, “Along the Way,” he describes a day spent with people who taught him about courage, hope, joy, wonder, and compassion—people who gave him a deeper understanding of the precious gospel of Jesus Christ. Some have suffered through illnesses, some through difficult circumstances, and some through fierce persecution. Some are just people he admires and looks up to. But all add to the story, all contribute their own knowledge and wisdom. Joni Eareckson Tada makes an appearance here, as do Rosaria Butterfield, Caroline Cobb, and a few whose stories are just as important, though their names are lesser-known.

Together, it makes for a compelling and helpful book. And since it is told by as skilled a writer as Tim, it is also a beautiful book—one that uses the riches of the English language to make it all the better to read.

Those who are enduring a long trial will find A Day’s Journey comforting. Those who are not—but who know they will in the future (since this is, after all, a world in which we all endure trials)—will find it challenging. All who read it will benefit from it and find that it leads their hearts to worship the Lord who accompanies us on every journey, the most difficult as well as the most joyful.

Joni Eareckson Tada has had a long and faithful ministry. I expect you are familiar with the basic outline of her story—how in 1967, when she was just 17 years old, she was involved in a diving accident that left her paralyzed. In the initial stages of her recovery she stewed in sorrow and self-pity and for a time sank into depths of darkness, despair, and depression. But over time she became convicted that her condition was God’s will. God did not mean for her to resent it, but to accept it, to embrace it, and to use it.

Though at first tempted to believe her great sorrow marked the end of her service to God, it actually proved to be the opening chapter of it. It spurred her to found Joni and Friends, a ministry that, for 45 years, has been serving people with disabilities. She has written a number of books, spoken before millions, and led many to Christ. She has been a blessing and inspiration to so many people for so many years.

But for all she has done publicly, I suspect her greatest impact may be through personal interactions. I have encountered many people who can tell stories of her words of kindness and acts of love—how she ministered to them when they were in times of distress. I am thankful that on a few occasions she has reached out to be a blessing and encouragement to me and that she was willing to write some kind words about Seasons of Sorrow. But let me tell you what means even more than her direct involvement in my own life.

In 1965 my aunt Nancy committed suicide after a long battle with mental illness. My grandfather was a Supreme Court judge who was prominent in Montreal, so her death became quite public. The musician Leonard Cohen, who had been part of Nancy’s circle of friends, wrote a popular song about her, and he and others blamed my grandfather for her death. There was shame heaped upon him and upon the family. Eventually, my grandfather also took his own life. This one little family had now suffered two huge tragedies.

Yet in all that pain God reached out and saved the unlikeliest of converts—my dad. And through my dad he saved my mom and several of my aunts and uncles. He also saved my grandmother. But those severe losses had, of course, left her scarred and devastated. And though her faith was genuine, she was involved in churches that offered few compelling answers to life’s big sorrows.

She was still quite a new and unseasoned Christian when she heard of a young lady named Joni who had written a bestselling book and whose story was now being told in a film. My grandmother decided to write Joni a letter to describe her circumstances and to express her distress and confusion. Maybe this young lady would understand. Maybe she would even return her letter and offer some sympathy and guidance.

And, sure enough, Joni did reply to her. In a lengthy and heartfelt letter, she encouraged my grandmother. She helped her. She blessed her. She drew her attention to the Lord. In the few years that remained to my grandmother, she often told what a blessing Joni had been to her.

I thought of this recently when focusing on Paul’s words in Philippians 3 where he instructs Christians to press on with a single-minded devotion. “Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead” he uses the metaphor of a race to tell believers to press on toward the goal—the goal that is the presence of Jesus Christ. And in that light, consider this: All the way back in the early 1980s, Joni ministered to my grandmother after the loss of her daughter. Forty years later, she ministered to me after the loss of my son. (And, of course, until I wrote these words, she would have had no idea of the connection…)

And this is what I so love and respect about Joni. For all these years she has been single-mindedly pressing on toward the goal and it’s clear that she does not intend to stop until she reaches it. There’s a stirring beauty in the fact that she is pressing on in a wheelchair, pressing on with a broken and weakening body, but a strong and growing faith. And she loves to tell people that when she reaches the goal and sees Jesus, she will finally leap to her feet, only to immediately fall on her knees to worship him—to worship the one she has been pressing toward all these years. What a day and what a moment that will be!

We have a natural longing to know why. It is the question a child first asks her parents. It is the question an inquisitive toddler asks at every turn. It is the question that has spurred a world of exploration, invention, and innovation. Why?

It is no surprise, then, that when we encounter troubles, when we experience tragedies, and when we find ourselves in situations that grieve us, we ask why. When the pain comes upon us and cannot be dulled, when the illness takes over our bodies and cannot be cured, when sorrow settles deep within us and cannot be comforted, we want to know the reasons. It is not hard to see what has happened—the evidence is stamped upon our bodies, imprinted upon our souls, and etched upon our minds. But it’s very hard to see why it has happened. Why would God allow this unremitting pain? Why would God permit this distressing sickness? Why would God take that person I love? If God cares and God loves and if God ordains and God controls, why would this be his will? How could this ever make sense?

Yet the answers are rarely forthcoming. We may know the general answers—“all things work for good” and “for my name’s sake” and find some comfort in them. But when we scour the Scriptures and devote ourselves to prayer in search of the particulars—or even go further and appeal to prophecies, coincidences, or inner feelings—we are met with silence or uncertainty.

I offer four responses to those who long to know the why to their sorrow or their suffering, their time of illness or of loss.

The first is to trust God with it. You have been graciously saved by faith—faith in the saving work of Jesus Christ. Yet faith is not a one-time reality—“express it and forget it.” You need faith for all of life. This faith calls you to not merely entrust your soul to God, but also your life, your times, your health, your loved ones, and everything else. “God, I have trusted you for salvation,” you may pray, “and now I trust you with my suffering.” If you can confidently place your soul in his hands, so too your health, your safety, your children, and all you count dear. And even if he chooses not to answer your why questions, you can know that he is eminently trustworthy and that he must have very good reasons and a very good plan.

The second is to consider what answer would actually satisfy you. You may think you want to know why, but it is worth asking if you actually do. What answer would satisfy you? And do you have a mind capable of grasping it? Because the answer may reach deep into the past and extend far into the future. God may be up to things that require knowledge far beyond your ability and capacity far beyond that of your limited, little, sin-tainted mind. And then even if you could understand, are you confident that you would judge it worth it? That you would hear God’s explanation and receive it with joy? Consider if you actually want to receive an answer and if any answer would satisfy you.

The third is to steer your mind away from what God has not revealed and to steer it instead toward what he has. Instead of searching for the reasons for your tragedy, look to the character of God—all the things he has revealed about himself. Where your temptation may be to interpret God through what you know about your tragedy, it is infinitely more important to interpret your tragedy through what you know about God. So as you endure your time of suffering, bring to mind the glorious reality of who God is and what God has done. Then consider your circumstances in light of those truths.

The fourth is to turn your focus from “what God did” to “how God is using it”—and then be careful not to conflate the two. You do not need to know God’s reasons in order to praise him for the results. Yet you need to be careful that you do not assume the results are the reasons. Is the reason Jim Elliot died so that Elisabeth could have the ministry she did? Maybe. We can’t know because God doesn’t tell us. What is one of the ways God used Jim Elliot’s death? By raising up Elisabeth and allowing her to have a long and powerful ministry. These are two very different ways of looking at the issue and you are on much firmer ground when you focus on the second. In your own life, as you set aside “why did God do this?” you free yourself to ask, “How may God wish for me to use this in a way that brings him glory and shows love to my neighbor?” You can begin to ask questions like these: How has God proven his character in this? In what ways has he been true to his promises? How have I grown in faith and love through it? How have I seen others become more like Christ? How has this hardship loosened my love for the things of this earth and lifted my eyes to heaven? You can rejoice in how God is using your sorrow and suffering even though you do not know the reasons.

Times of suffering are a tragic reality on this side of heaven. And as you endure them, I plead with you not to cheapen your tragedies by being too quick to assume you know God’s purposes in them. Rather, entrust them to the One who has proven worthy of your trust, your confidence, and your deepest devotion. Entrust it to him, look to him with faith, rejoice in every evidence of how he is using it for good, and wait for the day when he will make it all clear.

Infants are easily discontented. They cry when hungry, they cry when tired, they cry when uncomfortable, they cry when afraid. It often seems they cry for no reason at all! Toddlers are perhaps a little better, but they are still quick to fuss and complain, still quick to express every little sorrow and every minor dissatisfaction. It is only age and maturity that eventually allows children to endure discomfort without whining, tantrums, and hysterics.

If all of this wasn’t bad enough, children also fuss and protest when their parents correct their behavior—even behavior that might harm or kill them. Many a child has screamed and protested when their parents have scooped them into their arms just before they toddled into traffic or plunged into a pool. The Bible simply states what’s patently obvious when it insists “folly is bound up in the heart of a child.”

It’s not for nothing that the Bible describes Christians as children. We enter the Christian life as spiritual infants who act the part. We are immature and unformed. Like children, we are quick to grumble when we encounter difficult circumstances, quick to murmur when providence fails to grant what we desire. We may not quite demand that we be carried to heaven on Isaac Watt’s “flowery beds of ease,” but we may still gripe and moan when called to face a foe, to bear a cross, or to endure a thorn.

But time brings maturity. This maturity comes about in a few different ways. It comes as we gain a greater knowledge of the character and purposes of God and, with it, a deeper trust in him, a greater confidence in the kindness of his heart and the decrees of his providence.

This maturity comes about as our lives become increasingly bound up in Christ’s. We find that we long to be used by him, even at great cost to our own comfort. Just as Jesus had food to eat that his disciples knew nothing about—which is to say, just as Jesus found satisfaction in doing the will of God—so too for us. We gladly do without what we might otherwise desire in order to serve and please the Lord.

And then this maturity comes about by an increasing nearness to heaven through which our sights are ever-more set on paradise and the joys that await us there. We understand that the longer our lives continue, the less time we have to bear the pain, the fewer the years we are called to bear our sorrows before we finally release them forever. Weights that feel so heavy when we look down begin to feel light as we look ahead and see heaven’s gates ready to receive us, ready to welcome us in. We know we are almost home.

So, as we press on in the Christian life, as we advance from spiritual infancy to spiritual maturity, we find joyfulness increasing even when our comforts are decreasing. We find ourselves cheerful in trials, content in persecution, submissive even when we meet with sore disappointment. Things that may have seriously disturbed us in former days are powerless to derail or severely distress us in our later days. God gives us a contentment that is beyond this world, beyond our very selves—a contentment that causes our hearts to soar far above our circumstances and to remain at peace.

Pray, then, that God would help you grow from milk to meat, from infancy to maturity. Pray that you would know God’s loving heart toward you, that your life would become ever more bound up in Christ’s, that you would set your eyes on things above. Pray that you would learn to endure even the sorest trials with trust in God’s character, with faith in God’s purposes, and with joy that all things are from him, through him, to him, and for him. To him be the glory.

Is it possible for beauty to exist alongside realities as distressing as dementia and as dreadful as death? Is it possible to write about such realities in a way that is both devastating and encouraging, that is both shatteringly sorrowful and heartbreakingly beautiful? Karen Martin’s Memorable Loss: A Story of Friendship in the Face of Dementia answers with a resounding yes.

Karen Martin’s friendship with Kathleen was perhaps a bit unconventional, not least because they were separated in age by several decades. Yet after meeting through the local church, they became fast friends. Kathleen served as a kind of mentor and confidante, but, as is true in the best of friendships, Karen reciprocated despite her relative youth. Their love and friendship grew through many years and many shared experiences.

Eventually, though, Karen began to notice some changes in Kathleen. She became less comfortable in social settings, less confident in making decisions, and more easily confused. And then came the diagnosis of that most dreaded of diseases: Alzheimer’s. Kathleen had never married and was thus without children to care for her. And so Karen and a couple of Kathleen’s nephews took on the responsibility of helping her through her illness and guiding her through her diminishing abilities.

Alzheimer’s is both progressive and terminal. While Kathleen was at first able to care for herself, the time came when the disease progressed so far that she needed to be placed in a care home. She lived here in relative contentment until the end finally came.

Memorable Loss is Karen’s account of the days from immediately prior to Kathleen’s diagnosis all the way to her passing. It explains Alzheimer’s and dementia and shows how though they necessarily reduce the patient’s capacities, they do not reduce her personhood. It tells of some of the trials that caretakers must endure and some of the agonizing decisions they need to make on behalf of the one they love. And it does all of this through the highest quality of prose.

Martin tells not only of the tragedy of disease and death but of the beauty of the faith and friendship that bound the two women together. It’s an achingly beautiful account that leaves the reader groaning with the sorrow of this world but rejoicing in its delights and longing for the day when death and mourning, when crying and pain, will have passed away. I simply can’t recommend it too highly.

There was no silence like the silence that descended over the trenches of Western Europe on the morning of November 11, 1918. At exactly 11 AM, an armistice came into effect that brought a halt to all fighting on land, sea, and air. Never had silence been better appreciated than when that silence marked the end of the four brutal years we now call the First World War. In its own way, the silence was a song that told of the cessation of hostilities and the dawning of peace.

Matt Boswell and Matt Papa once wrote a hymn about the beauty of stillness, of calmness, of peace. “Christ the Sure and Steady Anchor” is meant to comfort Christians in times of trial and suffering. Its lyrics tell about the fury of life’s storms when winds of doubt are blowing and sinking hopes are few. They tell about the tempests of temptation, the floods of unbelief, and the waves of death. Through it all they promise Christ as the sure and steady anchor and proclaim, that with God’s help, “I will hold fast to the anchor; / It shall never be removed.”

The hymn culminates in a stanza that speaks of the Christian’s confidence as he faces the inevitability of death, for each of these different forms of suffering and sorrow is in its own way pointing us to the final suffering, the final sorrow, and to all that lies beyond. “When these trials give way to glory, / As we draw our final breath; / We will cross that great horizon, / Clouds behind and life secure…” And then this:

And the calm will be the better

For the storms that we endure.

The silence that followed the Armistice at the end of the First World War was especially sweet to the soldiers because of the long and brutal clamor that preceded it. And in just that way, the calm of heaven will be especially sweet to the Christian because of the suffering and sorrow that we have endured before it.

I have often heard those who have endured hurricanes tell that they had never appreciated silence as much as they did in the moments that followed the storm. I have often heard those who have endured illnesses tell that they had never appreciated health as much as they did in the moments that followed their recovery. And in much the same way, the peace of heaven will be especially delightful because of the warfare we have experienced here. The health of heaven will be especially precious because of the sickness we have experienced here. The safety of heaven will be especially meaningful because of the danger we have experienced here.

And so, Christian, when you have to pass through times of difficulties, times of trial, times of pain, you can gaze toward that distant horizon believing and knowing that the struggles you are enduring now are not only deepening your longing for heaven but also seasoning heaven to make it even better, even sweeter, even more precious. For as the songwriters say, the calm will be the better for the storms that we endure.

A couple of weeks ago I read a story about Tesla. The reporter had written a long piece about the company’s declining share prices and what it might mean for its future. He had written about its eccentric founder and some of his perplexing public comments. At the end of the article he included a little note explaining that, though he had reached out to the company to request a comment, he had received none. He had received none because Tesla has no public relations or media relations department. There was no comment because there was no one to provide one. I thought this made a funny little ending to an otherwise serious story.

I have spent a good bit of time over the past few years thinking and writing about grief and that has led to me read and converse a lot about the subject. And one theme I have come across time and again is Christians who are committed to doing a bit of PR work on behalf of the Lord. Though God has no media relations department, these people feel inclined to volunteer for the position and to explain—or explain away—some of what God says or does. Like any PR representative, they stand between the “boss” and the world to explain what he really meant, what he really intended to communicate in his Word.

Most often they intend to remove any connection between the suffering or death of a human being and the sovereignty of God. “God did not wish for this to happen,” they might say. “This could never be God’s will.” Maybe they’ll even say something like, “Satan won this round.” They want to protect God from his own sovereignty, as if it does not extend to matters as consequential as sorrow, suffering, and death.

Yet the consistent testimony of the Bible and the consistent testimony of the historic Christian faith is that God is, indeed, sovereign over all things. He is sovereign over birth, he is sovereign over death, and he is sovereign over everything in between. This means he is sovereign over the means of death and even over any suffering that accompanies death. Yet, of course, never in such a way as to sin or to be morally responsible for sin.

This relationship between God’s sovereignty and human responsibility is difficult to understand. In fact, it may well be impossible to fully understand, at least on this side of eternity. And so we take it by faith as the clear testimony of God’s Word.

And as we take it by faith, it brings meaning and purpose to our times of difficulty, for how could meaning and purpose fail to follow when we submit ourselves to the providence of God? He stands behind our sorrows, not as the one who is necessarily morally responsible for their causes—he compels no man to fire a gun and no woman to drive in a drunken state—but as the one who ultimately has power over all the circumstances of life and death.

There are many places you can go to see how this can be proven in the Bible (see here for example) but my interest today is in showing how other Christians have understood and explained the extent of God’s sovereignty. I do this because I have often felt the need to verify my understanding of Scripture and what I take to be its expansive explanation of God’s sovereignty against better theologians than myself. And, as I have consulted them, here is what I have found.

• Heidelberg Catechism: “God’s providence is his almighty and ever present power, whereby, as with his hand, he still upholds heaven and earth and all creatures, and so governs them that leaf and blade, rain and drought, fruitful and barren years, food and drink, health and sickness, riches and poverty, indeed, all things, come to us not by chance but by his fatherly hand.” (Note: all creatures … all things.)
• Westminster Shorter Catechism: “God’s works of providence are His most holy, wise, and powerful preserving and governing all his creatures and all their actions.” (Note: all his creatures and all their actions.)
• John Piper. “God, in his absolute ownership and sovereignty over all life, appoints the time and the kind of every death of every person on this planet.” (Note: God appoints the time and he appoints the kind.)
• Erwin Lutzer. “Our death is just as meticulously planned as the death of Christ. There is no combination of evil men, disease, or accident that can kill us as long as God still has work for us to do. To those who walk with faith in God’s providence, they die according to God’s timetable… The immediate cause of death might be any number of things, but the ultimate cause is God.” (Note: distinction between immediate cause and ultimate cause.)
• Loraine Boettner: “Nations, as well as individuals, are thus in the hands of God, who appoints the bounds of their habitation, and controls their destiny. He controls them as absolutely as a man controls a rod or a staff. They are in His hands, and He employs them to accomplish His purposes. He breaks them in pieces as a potter’s vessel, or He exalts them to greatness, according to His good pleasure. He gives peace and fruitful seasons, property and happiness, or He sends the desolations of war, famine, drought and pestilence. All of these things are of His disposing, and are designed for intelligent ends under His universal providence. God is no mere spectator of the universe He has made, but is everywhere present and active, the all-sustaining ground, and all-governing power of all that is.” (Note: the full expanse of God’s sovereignty.)
• William Mason. “Christian! Death cannot hurt you! Death is your best friend – who is commissioned by Christ to summon you from the world of vanity and woe, and from a body of sin and death – to the blissful regions of glory and immortality, to meet your Lord, and to be forever with Him.” (Note: death is commissioned by God and summoned by God.)
• Randy Alcorn. “Our sovereign God weaves millions of details into our lives. He may have one big reason, or a thousand little ones, for bringing a certain person or success or failure or disease or accident into our lives. His reasons often fall outside our present lines of sight. If God uses cancer or a car accident to conform us to Himself, then regardless of the human, demonic, or natural forces involved, He will be glorified.” (Note: Even difficult and grievous circumstances are used by God to do his will.)
• A.W. Pink. “The Lord God omnipotent reigneth. His government is exercised over inanimate matter, over the brute beasts, over the children of men, over angels good and evil, and over Satan Himself. No revolving of a world, no shining of a star, no storm, no movement of a creature, no actions of men, no errands of angels, no deeds of the Devil—nothing in all the vast universe can come to pass otherwise than God has eternally purposed. Here is a foundation for faith. Here is a resting place for the intellect. Here is an anchor for the soul, both sure and steadfast. It is not blind fate, unbridled evil, man or Devil, but the Lord Almighty who is ruling the world, ruling it according to His own good pleasure and for His own eternal glory.” (Note: the totality of God’s sovereignty.)
• John Owen. “We cannot enjoy peace in this world unless we are ready to yield to the will of God in respect of death. Our times are in His hand, at His sovereign disposal. We must accept that as best.” (Note: peace is related to accepting God’s sovereignty.)
• J.I. Packer. “To know that nothing happens in God’s world apart from God’s will may frighten the godless, but it stabilizes the saints.” (Note: God’s sovereignty over all things, including sorrow, suffering, and death is meant to give us confidence and stability.)

And so, as far as I am concerned, the truth is as clear as clear can be.

Christians have a complex relationship to suffering. We do not wish to experience suffering. It is not our desire, preference, or longing to go through times of pain and persecution, times of sorrow and loss. Yet we also know that God uses such experiences to accomplish significant and meaningful things within us. We know there are certain graces that bloom best in the valleys, certain fruits that ripen best in the winter, certain virtues that come to fruition most often in the shadows.

We want to be “perfect and complete, lacking in nothing,” yet James make it clear that the way to these graces does not pass around trials and tests, but through them. We want our faith to be tested and proven genuine, yet Peter tells us that we gain this confidence not when we avoid trials, but when we are grieved by them. We want to be able to offer comfort to Christians who are enduring times of sorrow, yet Paul tells us that it is precisely through receiving comfort in our pains that we become specially equipped to comfort others (James 1:4ff; 1 Peter 1:6ff; 2 Corinthians 1:4). A host of Christians will testify that they have come to know the Lord more intimately, they have come to put sin to death more earnestly, they have been equipped to serve more thoroughly, not apart from their suffering, but because of it.

And, indeed, as we look back at our own lives, we often see evidence of the ways God has worked in us through our hardest times. We see how it was when a loved one was taken from our side that we truly grew closer to the Lord, how it was when our wealth disappeared that we came to treasure God more fully, how it was when our bodies weakened that our reliance upon God grew. We see that God really does purify us through the fire, that he really does strengthen us in our weaknesses, that he really does sanctify us through our sorrows. Though we do not emerge from our trials unscathed, we still emerge from them better and holier and closer to him. Though we wish we did not experience such sorrows, we are thankful to have learned what we have learned and to have grown in the ways we have grown.

As I said, Christians have a complex relationship to suffering. And recently I have been pondering how I have a complex relationship to suffering. I have been pondering a kind of conflict that now exists in my heart and mind.

I want Nick back. But I don’t want my old self back. I so badly wish that my son could be part of my life again. But I would so badly hate to lose all the precious ways in which God has been real to me and true to me and present with me in my sorrows. There is so much I have learned, so many ways God has drawn close to me, so many blessings I’ve received from the Lord. And all of these came through sorrow, not apart from it. In some ways my greatest gains have flowed from my greatest loss, my greatest joys from my deepest sorrow.

But I suppose this should not come as a complete surprise, for God often works through paradox. After all, he is the God who says it is the poor rather than the rich who have the greatest wealth, that is those with the deepest hunger who are most satisfied, and that it is those who are persecuted who ought to rejoice and be glad. If in God’s kingdom the way to riches is through poverty and the way to exaltation is through humiliation, wouldn’t it stand to reason that the way to joy passes through sorrow and the way to growth passes through barrenness? Wouldn’t it stand to reason that the way to green pastures passes through dark valleys?

And so we live with this tension: to become who we want we often have to endure what we hate. To receive what we long for we often have to release what we love. To attain the most advanced graces we often need to experience the most painful sorrows.

I need to offer a word of clarity. I do not mean to say that God’s reasoning goes something like this: That guy is not growing in generosity in the way I’d like, so I am going to burn his house down to hasten the process; or that woman is not sufficiently sold out to my purposes so I’m going to take her health to force the issue. No, we need to separate the why from the what, the reason God wills things from what he may be accomplishing through them. We are far too small, far too simple, far too limited to be able to draw firm conclusions about God’s reasons—about why he has willed the difficulties in our lives. “The secret things belong to the Lord our God.” But what we can do and must do is ask, “How might God mean to use this in my life? What is God calling me to through it? How can I become a better Christian because of it?”

Sorrow does not always lead to advances in holiness, but it always can and always should, for the Spirit is present in our sorrows, ready and eager to sanctify them to his precious purposes. Through our sorrows he draws our hearts away from the fleeting pleasures of this earth to set them on the enduring pleasures of heaven. Through our sorrows he shifts our longings from things we cannot possibly keep to things we cannot possibly lose. Through our sorrows he diminishes the traits that mark citizens of the kingdom of this world and he amplifies the character that marks citizens of the kingdom of God.

We don’t wish to suffer. We shouldn’t wish to suffer. Yet we know that none of us escape this life unscathed. And when the time comes that “the path that I feared is the way he has set,” we can be certain that God is eager to sanctify our sorrows in ways that are ultimately for our benefit and for his glory, that behind the mysteries of his providence are wondrous treasures of sanctification, that whatever his reasons, he truly is working all things for good for those of us who are loved by him and called according to his purpose.

C.S. Lewis famously said that while God whispers to us in our pleasures, he shouts to us in our pains. And, indeed, as we pass through trials and afflictions we find that God speaks his truths to us in fresh and encouraging ways. And then it’s also true that we tend not to appreciate our pleasures until they are contrasted by pains—and that’s the point of this lovely quote by J.R. Miller which I trust you’ll enjoy reading and reflecting upon.

We do not know what God is to us—until, in some way, we lose the sense of his presence and the consciousness of his love. This is true of all our blessings. We do not know their value to us until they are lost or imperiled.

We do not prize health until it is shattered and broken, and we can never have it restored again.

We do not recognize the richness and splendor of youth until it has fled, with all its glorious opportunities, and worlds cannot buy it back.

We do not appreciate the comforts and blessings of Providence until we have been deprived of them, and are driven out of warm homes into the cold paths of a dreary world.

We do not estimate the value of our facilities for education and improvement, until the period of these opportunities is gone, and we must enter the hard battle of life unfurnished and unequipped.

We do not know how much our friends are to us—until they lie before us silent and cold. Ofttimes the vacant chair, or the deep, unbroken loneliness about us—is the first revealer of the worth of one we have never duly prized.

The lesson, of course, is to reflect on every blessing as we enjoy it and to return thanks to God for each and every one.

You know the old adage, I’m sure: To whom much is given much will be required. Or, to express it in the words of Jesus, “Everyone to whom much was given, of him much will be required, and from him to whom they entrusted much, they will demand the more.” The point is clear: God holds us responsible for all that we have. Said otherwise, God holds us responsible for all that he bestows upon us.

We tend to think of this principle when we consider all the good gifts we receive. We are to be faithful stewards of our money, acknowledging that those who have an abundance are particularly responsible to give with liberal generosity. We are to be faithful parents to our children, acknowledging that they are God’s children before our own. We are to be faithful pastors, keeping watch over all the flock as those who will have to give an account to the true Shepherd. It’s a principle that acknowledges God’s sovereignty over all the blessings we receive and our responsibility to discharge our duty faithfully.

But while we tend to consider this principle when it comes to the good things we receive, who’s to say that it doesn’t apply every bit as much to the difficult things? After all, just as God’s providence directs the sun it also directs the rain, and just as it directs times of laughter it also directs times of weeping. If prosperity comes from his hand so does poverty and if health can be his plan for us so may be sickness. It is not merely the good that we are responsible for, but also the difficulties. For they, too, are within his will.

And so as we encounter times of pain and illness, times of sorrow and loss, times of poverty and want, we should not merely ask, “How can I endure this?” or “How can I get out from under this?”, though certainly those questions may be appropriate. We should also ask, “How can I steward this? What is my duty in this? What does God mean to accomplish through this?”

What if Joni Eareckson Tada had chosen to live a life of despondency rather than embracing her disability as God’s will and as her particular ministry to God’s people? What if Susannah Spurgeon had pined away in self-pity rather than allowing her bed to become her office, the means through which she would send books to so many needy pastors? What if Amy Carmichael had allowed the poor health that forced her to leave Japan to end her missionary career rather than accepting it instead as God’s will to divert her to her ordained mission? What if Job had given up after the loss of all he held dear, what if David had dropped out after the death of his son, what if Paul had quit the field after being beaten the first time, or even the second or third?

All of these, and so many more, accepted their suffering as stewardship. They accepted it as something precious and meaningful and understood that it had called them to new duty, new obedience, new ways to be useful to God. And we have all benefited. We have learned more from how they endured their times of suffering than their times of joy, from their times of lack than their times of abundance, from their times of illness than their times of health. For while we may have learned what they professed to believe in days of sunshine, we have learned what they really believe in days of rain. And it has been a blessing and inspiration to us all.

Each of these did what we are all called to do—to embrace our sorrows as somehow consistent with God’s will, and to turn that sorrow outward in love for others and service to God. To whom much is given—even much sorrow, much pain, much suffering—, much will be required, for these give us unique opportunities to serve God’s people and showcase his glory.

I have said a lot about Nick over the past two years. I have written a lot of articles and done quite a number of interviews and even published a book. And I have been aware all the while that I can only speak to a small part of our loss, for there were many people who loved Nick and many who lost him. Today is the second anniversary of his death and I asked Aileen if she felt ready to write something. She said she did, and so today I am turning things over to her.

❖

When I was in Nashville for the Seasons of Sorrow book launch, Tim was asked several times “how are your wife and daughters doing?” It was asked often enough that, upon reflection, I think people understand that Tim has been nuancing the way he talks about my experience with grief as well as that of our girls. He has been very careful to only give voice to his experience of the last few years, and to word it in such a way that people don’t assume that the rest of the family’s experience necessarily matches his. I love him for this, and appreciate it very much. After all, Tim’s story is only part of the story. That’s because a dad’s grief is different from a mom’s grief. This makes sense. God has created each person to be unique which means each person’s experience of grief is unique. Each person’s relationship with the deceased is different as well, and this lends itself to differences in how each person grieves him. Adding another layer of complexity, each circumstance of loss is different as well. As we hear from people who have lost loved ones, I am continually struck by how different and unique each situation is, how grief shows differently in each person and each circumstance. This must be another example of how we are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Tim recently asked if for the second anniversary of Nick’s death I would be willing to write something about it—something that may help answer the question of how I am doing.

I was told it would probably take about two years before I felt anything close to back to normal, and it very much feels like the end of year two is the beginning of a new season. Because of this, it feels appropriate to look back and ponder what I am thankful for.

I am thankful for God preparing me.

God has been kind. He gave us one of the hardest things and yet he also gave so much to help us survive. Looking back, I now see how he prepared me years ago to weather such a storm. He blessed me by giving me a bedrock of theology that in my weakest moment I had to simply deploy. I can see how he gave us what we needed moment by moment to continue to walk in faith through such suffering. When nothing felt true, when God didn’t feel kind, when he didn’t feel good, when he didn’t feel just, I had a choice: I could choose to believe what my heart and my emotions were telling me—that God was cruel, unkind and unjust—or I could choose to believe what my mind knew to be true of God’s character and trust that eventually my emotions would catch up to my brain. There are days when this is still a struggle, but I have learned not to trust my feelings. Emotions cannot inform truth. Rather, truth must inform emotions. God didn’t abandon us, he walked with us and prepared us. I had to choose to see his presence, but he was there. I am so thankful that in his mercy he prepared me.

I am thankful for God’s sovereignty.

God’s sovereignty is both comforting and terrifying at the same time. I think in the abstract I knew the Lord could choose to do anything he wanted in our lives. But suddenly, on November 3, I learned dramatically that he actually will do anything. Even so, I am so thankful God is in control. This situation would be only worse if God had no control over it. God had every right to choose this for us. I may not much like it, but I know he has purpose in it. As humans we seem to have a driving need to understand why things are happening. It makes us feel better if we can attribute a specific purpose to the hardships we are experiencing. But the reality is that in our human weakness and frailty, God has not given us that ability. We can guess, we can suspect, but we cannot know. God instead gives us knowledge of his sovereignty, and asks us to trust, by faith, that all things work together for our good and his glory. How this is true in Nick’s death I do not know. I don’t expect to ever know, on this earth, the full purpose of this suffering in our lives. But, I do know one day it will all make sense. I can wait, patiently, trusting in God’s character. I am thankful he sees the big picture, that he is in control of all things, and that nothing happens outside his will. I am thankful that God is sovereign.

I am thankful this is temporary.

I also know that as hard as this is, it is all temporary. Initially we divided the days up by doing the next hard thing. That might have been the call to the coroner or the call to the funeral home. It might have been picking out clothing or packing up belongings. But for a long while our life was divided into segments, defined by the next hard thing we had to do. As time has gone on those hard things have grown further apart. Even so, the reality is we will always have the next hard thing we have to do. Life in this fallen world dictates it. But one day, there will no longer be the next hard thing. I am so thankful that this world is not our home. Until that day, when the Lord calls me home, my job on this earth is not yet done. So I will wait patiently, enduring what I need to until one day there will be no more mourning, no more crying or pain, and every tear will be wiped away and death shall be no more. I am so thankful this is temporary.

Lastly, I am thankful I got to be Nick’s mom.

I have wanted to tell you all about Nick, but as I began to write this out I found that I still can’t. Another time perhaps, when the pain is a little less raw, when my heart hurts just a little bit less, I’ll be able to share a bit more about my firstborn, the one who first made me a mom. God in his mercy gave me a son who brought light and joy to my life for 20 years. Despite all the sadness, I am so very thankful I got to be a mom to my Nick.

A few days after Nick’s death I wrote to a friend of mine and I expressed my longing for the day joy would return. I knew logically that one day it would come, but looking forward all I could see was heartache and sorrow. These have been hard, hard days. But God in his kindness and mercy has sustained us. We have grieved and mourned and wept. But as the two-year mark draws to a close, I am seeing that joy return—joy that is less tainted by sorrow. I am thankful. God has been present. And I think I will end here as I have ended every note I have written in the last two years: God is still good.

This is a special photo as it captured the first moment Nick began to respond to Aileen and ‘talk’ back to her.

The strange machine along the streets of Madrid seized my attention.

Its long arms reached out and wrapped themselves around the trunk of a tree. Its motor vibrated those arms at high speeds so they could shake the tree violently. Its net sat suspended just beneath the lowest branches. As the machine buzzed and roared, a hundred ripe oranges fell from the branches to land in the net below — a hundred ripe oranges that could feed and satisfy a hundred people. That machine was carefully designed to release the fruit from the tree — to release it by shaking.

The nets filled with oranges remind me of something the apostle Paul once wrote about times of trial and tribulation, of deep sorrow and loss. He contended that Christians must be prepared to be afflicted, perplexed, persecuted, and even struck down — a collection of words meant to display the variety of ways in which God may call us to suffer (2 Corinthians 4:8–9).

The God who is sovereign over all things may lead us into times and contexts that are deeply painful. Yet we can be confident that our suffering is never arbitrary and never meaningless, for God always has a purpose in mind. Hence, Paul says more: we will be “afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.” For those in Christ, God’s purpose is never to harm us and never to ruin us.

So what is God’s purpose in our suffering? Why does God sometimes lead us away from the green pastures and still waters to call us instead to follow him into deep and dark valleys (Psalm 23)? These were questions that were much on my mind in the days, weeks, and months following the Lord’s decision to call my son to himself.

(Note: this article was commissioned by Desiring God and posted to their site last month)

God Left Us Sonless

Nick, age 20, was at seminary and taking a break from his studies to play a game with a group of his friends when, in an instant, his heart stopped, his body fell to the ground, and his soul went to heaven. His friends tried to revive him, a passing doctor tried to revive him, responding paramedics and emergency-room doctors tried to revive him. But it was to no avail. God had called him home. And since God had summoned him to heaven, there was no doctor, no medication, and no procedure that could keep my son here on earth.

I don’t know why God determined that Nick would live so short a life, why he would leave this world with so little accomplished and so much left undone. I don’t know why God determined to leave Aileen and me sonless, Abby and Michaela brotherless, Ryn fiancéless and ultimately husbandless. I don’t know why God did it — why God exercised his sovereignty in taking away a young man who was so dearly loved, who was so committed to serving Jesus, and who had so much promise. But I don’t need to know, for, as Moses said, “The secret things belong to the Lord our God” (Deuteronomy 29:29).

While I don’t know why God did it, I am already beginning to understand how God is using it.

Lamentation Without Resentment

On the streets of Madrid, a machine shakes the orange trees to cause them to release their fruit. It shakes them violently, shakes them so hard that it almost looks as if the branches must snap, as if the trunk must splinter, as if the entire tree must be uprooted. Yet this is the way it must be done, for the delicious fruit is connected tightly to the inedible branches. And the moment the machine has collected the fruit, I observe, it ceases its shaking, it furls up its net, it withdraws its arms, and it backs away, leaving the tree healthy and well, prepared to bear yet another harvest.

And just like that machine shook the orange tree, Nick’s death has shaken me and shaken my family and shaken my church and shaken Nick’s friends and shaken his school — shaken us to our very core. Yet this shaking, though it has been violent and exceedingly painful, has not caused us to break. We have raised our voices in lamentation, but never in rebellion. We have raised hands of worship, but never fists of rage. We have asked questions, but have never expressed resentment.

To the contrary, as I look at those who love Nick most, I see them displaying fresh evidences of God’s grace. I see them growing in love for God, in the joy of their salvation, in the peace of the gospel, in their patience with God’s purposes, in kindness toward others, in the goodness of personal holiness, in faithfulness to all God has called them to, in gentleness with other people’s sins and foibles, and in that rare, blessed virtue of self-control. I see them bearing the precious fruit of the Spirit as never before (Galatians 5:22–23).

Shaken to Bear Fruit

Just as the fruit of the tree clings tightly to the branch, the evil within us clings tightly to the good, the vices to the virtues, the immoral to the upright. God does not mean to harm us when he shakes us, but simply to release the fruit — to do what is necessary to separate what is earthly from what is heavenly, what dishonors him from what delights his heart.

As I consider my wife, as I consider my girls, as I consider Nick’s precious fiancée, as I consider his friends and fellow church members, I see that they have been deeply shaken by his death — shaken by God’s sovereign hand. But I see as well that they have been shaken for a beautiful purpose. They have been shaken to bear fruit.

In the relatively early days following Nick’s death, I understood that I would face a number of temptations—the temptation to sink into unremitting despair, the temptation to descend into self-pity, or the temptation to charge God with wrong. I knew also that God was calling me to carry a deep sorrow for a long time and that I could grow weary of it and then act out in ungodly ways. For that reason I soon found myself writing a kind of manifesto, a declaration that I would read often and hold myself accountable to. I am sharing it today in case others may find it helpful as they are called upon to suffer in their own ways. Perhaps it can give you ideas or words that you can adopt as your own as you attempt to be faithful in even the most difficult of circumstances. (This manifesto is chapter 9 of Seasons of Sorrow.)

By faith I will accept Nick’s death as God’s will, and by faith accept that God’s will is always good. By faith I will be at peace with Providence, and by faith at peace with its every decree. By faith I will praise God in the taking as I did in the giving, and by faith receive from his hand this sorrow as I have so many joys. I will grieve but not grumble, mourn but not murmur, weep but not whine.

Though I will be scarred by Nick’s death, I will not be defined by it. Though it will always be part of my story, it will never become my identity. I will be forever thankful that God gave me a son and never resentful that he called him home. My joy in having loved Nick will be greater than my grief in having lost him. I will not waver in my faith, nor abandon my hope, nor revoke my love. I will not charge God with wrong.

I will receive this trial as a responsibility to steward, not a punishment to endure. I will look for God’s smile in it rather than his frown, listen for his words of blessing rather than his voice of rebuke. This sorrow will not make me angry or bitter, nor cause me to act out in rebellion or indignation. Rather, it will make me kinder and gentler, more patient and loving, more compassionate and sympathetic. It will loose my heart from the things of earth and fix it on the things of heaven. The loss of my son will make me more like God’s Son, my sorrow like the Man of Sorrows.

I will continue to love God and trust him, continue to pursue God and enjoy him, continue to worship God and boast of his many mercies. I will look with longing to the day of Christ’s return and with expectation to the day of resurrection. I will remain steadfast and immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord. I will forget what lies behind and strain forward to what lies ahead, always pressing on toward the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. I will lay aside every weight and sin that clings so closely and run with endurance the race that is set before me, looking always to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of my faith. I will remain faithful until I have fought the good fight and finished the race and kept the faith. I will die as I have lived—a follower of Jesus Christ. Then, by grace, I will go to be with Jesus, and go to be with Nick.

This is my manifesto.

(For similar writing, please consider reading my book Seasons of Sorrow: The Pain of Loss and the Comfort of God)