While We Weep

While We Weep

It’s been kinda quiet here on the blog lately, mostly because I’ve been working on some other projects offline. Rainey and I are writing/illustrating a picture book together, and I’m writing a memoir on marriage and motherhood. Also, I’ve been doing some writing for Off the Page, a new ministry of Our Daily Bread geared toward millennials who like to wrestle with questions about faith and believe love trumps all. Definitely my kind of people.

Here’s the beginning of the first piece I’ve written for them on suffering, sovereignty, and when God doesn’t seem to make any sense. As always, thanks for reading.

“My doctor says I’m cured,” she tells me over the phone. Cured. Cancer doctors don’t throw that word around a lot. It’s a miracle, really, given that only 10 percent of people with her diagnosis live past five years, and she’s surpassed that with minimal setbacks.

I’ve been hoping to hear this news ever since the stage 4 melanoma metastasized in my mother’s lungs several years ago. But now that I’ve finally heard it, now that the doctor has officially cleared her as a patient, an unwelcome wave of guilt washes over me. Maybe because I know so many people who’ve had the opposite experience. Their mom—or wife or brother or uncle or best friend—died of cancer. Like my friend, Laura. Her dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor around the same time as my mom’s diagnosis. We prayed together for our parents. He died eighteen months later. Why did God save my mom but not my friend’s dad?

The common Christian response to enigmatic questions like mine is to try to explain it, to say that it will all work out, that God will ultimately “get the glory.” But what does that mean? What does that even mean to Laura? Saying that God is sovereign may be true and biblically accurate, but it seems woefully incomplete and unkind when you’re struggling to understand human suffering, especially if you’re currently caught in its crosshairs…

Read the rest over at Off the Page


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