Thin Air, High Hope

Late last year, our HOPE team walked alongside a young man and his family as he battled cancer. This experience profoundly affected me for several reasons. One significant takeaway was the realization that I didn’t truly understand the nature of “suffering.”

As we did our best to support this young man, a colleague and I often found ourselves overwhelmed with grief. We shared moments of tears, wrestling with the weight of his impending loss.

Our grief received various responses, with many suggesting that we “shouldn’t” be sad. After all, this young man had a deep faith in God and was at peace with his future. Yet, the sadness and ache persisted in my heart. I became frustrated and disappointed with myself, feeling that my faith in heaven should have provided more substantial consolation and joy.

During my visit to the States over Christmas, I discovered a book titled “Walking with God through Pain and Suffering.” I’m roughly halfway through the book, and it has been a source of solace and insight. There are specific thoughts from the book that have brought me peace, and I’d like to share them, recognizing that these are my personal understandings:

Suffering is something our culture often struggles to handle. We view hardships as something to endure, minimize, or swiftly overcome with minimal emotional expression. When we or others suffer, we seek reasons, justifications, or quick solutions. We might even blame the individual, ourselves, or even God. If someone in pain expresses sorrow or grief, our instinct is often to fix it hastily or avoid it entirely. We tend to expect stoicism during suffering, believing there should only be joy and acceptance, not tears or protest.

I acknowledge that much of this reaction stems from love. We don’t want to witness our loved ones in pain. I’ve told my children, “It’s okay, don’t cry,” when they’re sad. However, on one occasion, one of them responded, “But Mama, it is NOT okay.” And they were right.

When we approach suffering by attempting to fix, ignore, or minimize it, we oversimplify genuine pain. This approach differs from what we see in the Bible, where lamentations, protests, loud cries, and tears abound. God doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, He appears to engage more with His people during those times (Psalm 34:18).

The book I’m reading discusses how Jesus wept with the people when standing before Lazarus’ tomb. But why did He weep? He knew Lazarus would be resurrected in mere moments. Yet, the word used to describe His weeping indicates deep anguish and anger. Jesus wept because the world is not as it should be. Death, loss, and pain exist, and no amount of stoicism can change that reality.

The author quotes an early Christian who grieved the loss of his brother: “We have not incurred any grievous sin by our tears. Not all weeping proceeds from unbelief or weakness… The Lord also wept… He wept for all in weeping for one, I will weep for all, in my brother.”

This perspective has brought me peace. It has allowed me not to feel guilty when I’m angry about the state of our world. I can cry out of frustration when young lives are taken, and I don’t have to accept the well-intended but inadequate explanations like “it’s God’s will” or “just have faith.” I can approach God in my anguish, knowing He is willing to engage with me. I can understand that even His Son was not at peace with the present state of things and wept, even as He had full faith in the future.

I recognize that these thoughts raise numerous theological questions and “whys.” Writing this post feels like a young child attempting to grasp quantum physics. However, I needed to acknowledge that, even though there is much I do not understand (or am in the process of understanding), it appears that God has room for our grief, anger, indignation, and tears.