There was a season of my life that lasted nearly four years when it felt like one wave of grief crashed into me before I could catch my breath from the last one.

A year-long custody battle.

The heartbreaking loss of my stepchildren, whom I had raised, when they moved to Illinois while we remained in Texas.

The devastating discovery that one of my children had been abused by someone we loved and trusted.

Then COVID.

Then my mom died from COVID, which she likely contracted from my husband. The weight of that possibility crushed him, and watching the man I loved carry that burden only multiplied my own grief.

Somewhere in the middle of all of that, panic attacks became normal. I was exhausted. Angry. Heartbroken. Isolated.

And honestly? It didn’t seem fair.

I had tried to be faithful. I taught God’s Word. I served in the church. I loved my children with everything I had. I wanted my life to glorify Christ.

So why this?

Because I believe God is sovereign, I also believe nothing reaches me without first passing through His hands. That wasn’t a comforting thought during those years.

In fact, it made me angry.

People would say things like, “God is in control,” or “Just trust Him,” or “He has a plan.”

I wanted to scream.

I know He’s in control! That’s exactly why I’m struggling.

I wasn’t questioning whether God could have stopped the pain. I knew He could have. I was questioning why He didn’t. I wanted answers. And comfort. Instead, I got clichés.

Please don’t misunderstand me. Every one of those statements is true. God is in control. He does have a plan. He will work all things together for good.

But when someone is hemorrhaging grief, they don’t first need an explanation. They need compassion. Truth without love can feel like dismissal.

At the very height of my suffering, one dear friend did something I’ll never forget. She didn’t try to defend God. She didn’t quote Romans 8:28. She didn’t remind me that everything happens for a reason.

She looked at me through tears and simply said, “Jen…this isn’t fair.”

Then she cried with me. Not polite tears. Scream-crying tears. She climbed down into the pit with me instead of shouting Bible verses from the edge.

And something inside me began to heal.

She reminded me of what Paul tells us in Romans 12:15: “Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.“

That’s exactly what she did.  It’s also what Jesus did. When Jesus arrived at the tomb of Lazarus, He already knew what He was about to do. He knew resurrection was only moments away. He knew death wasn’t going to have the final word. Yet when He saw Mary and Martha weeping, He didn’t interrupt their grief with, “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

He wept.

Those two simple words…”Jesus wept” (John 11:35), tell us something profound about the heart of our Savior. He entered into their sorrow before He solved it.

I think we’ve forgotten how to do that. Sometimes we’re so eager to defend God’s sovereignty that we fail to display His compassion. We’re uncomfortable with unanswered questions, so we rush to provide answers when what our hurting brothers and sisters really need is our presence.

There were days I wanted to run from God. I wanted to leave church. I wanted Him to know how hurt I was. It was almost childish-as though I could somehow punish God by walking away.

Looking back, I realize I was like a nine-year-old who packs a backpack after getting mad at her dad and announces she’s running away. She stomps out the front door convinced she’ll make it on her own. But after a while, the excitement fades.

It starts getting dark.

She’s hungry.

She’s scared.

And then she realizes that everything she’s ever known…every meal, every safe place to sleep, every ounce of love, was back inside the house she just left.

That’s how I felt.

I had stepped outside the loving arms of my Father, not because He had abandoned me, but because I was angry with Him. Yet even in my anger, I knew I could never truly leave.

Where else would I go?

My entire life had been built on Him. He had been faithful for decades. Even when I couldn’t understand His ways, I knew His character.

He is good.

He is loving.

He is just.

He is my only hope.

Eventually I realized something beautiful. God wasn’t offended by my rage. He wasn’t threatened by my questions. He wasn’t shocked by my anger. He already knew every thought before I spoke it.

The Psalms are full of people asking “Why?”

Habakkuk questioned. Jeremiah lamented. Even Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?“

God invites us to bring Him our whole hearts-even the broken, angry parts. Sometimes faith doesn’t look like smiling through the pain. Sometimes faith looks like refusing to let go of God while asking Him why.

Peter understood this better than most.

When many disciples walked away because Jesus’ teaching was difficult, Jesus turned to the Twelve and asked, “Do you want to go away as well?”

Peter answered, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” (John 6:68)

That verse gets me every time.

Because even when I wanted to run…

Where else could I go?

The only place to take my pain was to the One who had already carried my greatest burden on the cross.

I still don’t have answers for everything my family endured. I don’t know why God allowed each heartbreak. But I know this-

The God who allowed nails to pierce His own Son for my salvation is not indifferent to my suffering.

The Father who watched His Son die understands grief.

The Savior who wept at Lazarus’s tomb understands loss.

The High Priest who sympathizes with our weakness welcomes us to come boldly to Him.

He’s patiently waiting with open arms.

And if you’re walking beside someone whose world is falling apart, don’t be so quick to fix their theology that you forget to love them.

Yes, tell them the truth. But first, sit with them in the ashes. Cry with them. Remind them they aren’t alone.

Because sometimes the most Christlike thing we can say isn’t, “God has a plan.”

Sometimes it’s simply to weep with them and say,

“This is awful and I know it hurts…and I’m not leaving you here alone.”

Ardently His,

Jenifer

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