The other morning I was told about a family who’s one year old son passed away after a week long battle. I don’t really know the family, yet I find myself crying and heartbroken, as though we were close friends or family. My heart is breaking for the parents and grandparents of this little boy.

I am reminded of some questions that I have for God. This family prayed, as did their church, and their pastor, and many others around the country. Why didn’t all of these prayers seem to make a difference? Why was God’s answer to these prayers for full recovery the complete opposite of what was being asked? Why bother with the brief miracle of keeping this little boy alive for a week just to take him from his parents’ loving arms anyway? What was the point of people praying just for God to take this little boy anyway? Does God really care? And many other questions that I fear to give voice to. To be honest, I asked these or similar questions right after the May 20 tornados when we found out 7 children in Moore died, and I keep coming back to them from time to time, especially in the face of tragedy.

I know the nice, “churchy” and religious answers. You know, the cliché responses like: “He’s in a better place.” “She’s not in pain.” “He’s completely healed now.” “God needed her back.” And let’s not forget what is possibly one of the most cliché response we in the church frequently pop off with, Romans 8:28, “All things work together for good, for those who love the Lord.” But, I find these well intentioned responses to be unsatisfying. They don’t really seem to bring comfort in times of trouble and questions.

So I scream out, demanding that the Almighty answer me. I need to hear God in these times. God, you owe me, and the rest of us answers! You owe my friends some answers! We want to understand. We want to see the big picture. We want to trust you, but we need answers!

And in the midst of all my questioning, and demanding answers from God, there is a constant, quiet presence, and another persistent barrage of new questions, possibly not unlike Job’s conversation with God: “Who are you to question me?” “Are you God?” “What have you created on your own?” “Can you control the beasts of the fields, and of the oceans?” “Do you hold the power over life and death in your hands?” My answer is a simple, weak “No, but…” and before I can even really express the “but” I am stopped.

I am reminded that I am not God. But that as lowly as we are, God feels our pain. He holds our tears. And I am reminded that He gave His Son for us. And Christ also experienced the same pain we feel. When Lazarus died, it is recorded that “Jesus wept.” Of course, in my infinite human wisdom, I quickly respond, “But Jesus also raised Lazarus from the dead, immediately. He didn’t have to weep for long.” And I hear, “My child, be still. Know that I am God. I hold your tears. I know your pain. I feel the pain of your brothers and sisters. I know my children are weeping. But I have not left them alone. I have allowed others to share in their pain with them, so that it may be bearable; so that they may not be crushed.”

To my friends who have lost their little boy: I have no magic words to ease your pain. And I offer no pious words. I simply weep with you. My heart is broken with yours. Finally, please also know that you are being lifted up to our Heavenly Father.