The one about the unanswerable question

In moments of tragedy it gets harder to hold on to faith.

I feel it slipping out of my fingers. I grab wildly hoping to catch it before it disappears under the waves of sorrow that won’t stop coming.

Why?

So many dead

So much sadness

So much hatred

How can we go on?

Where is He?

Why?

I put on my music and the song floats through my headphones. Quoting Psalm 56 “you are keeping count of all my tears. I am confident that you are for me now until the end” And I cry. Belief in a good God has gotten a little bit harder. But if I’m honest with myself I don’t want a faith I can fully wrap my brain around. I consider myself a smart person but if I can figure out the answer to that unanswerable question will that lead to relief? Or will I just end up more afraid than ever?

When I’m sad where does relief come from? Not from an answer. The comfort comes from the presence of others. The sitting. The silence. The crying. The laughing. The love.

And that’s it. As simple and cliche as it sounds that’s the answer to the unanswerable question.

Love

I don’t want to be one of those people of faith who offers an answer with a sting to it. Some trite comment about the plans of God being above our thoughts and minds. Something about the nature of the sinful world we live in as sinful people. I’m not interested in that. In that direction lies sorrow and death. I want to speak words of life. I want to be known by my love for others. For joy to come we must mourn first. Jesus took time to weep at the tomb of Lazarus. He knew the end of the story, but he didn’t rush the process. He didn’t offer platitudes. He wept. And yes healing came. But I would venture to say the healing began with tears at the tomb, well before the breath came back into once dead lungs.

So I’m going to sit in silence and let others talk. I’m going to let people I love who know more about this tell me what they need from me and I’m going to give it to them. I’m going to give them my silence, my tears, my prayers, my voice.

I will weep with those who weep

I will hold onto the hope that joy does indeed come in the morning

Or rather, in the mourning

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