This week, my new book It Is Enough! Finding Purpose in Suffering was officially released. Writing this book was not merely a theological study for me. It was deeply personal, written out of my own suffering, years of ministering among hurting people around the world, and listening to the countless questions people have asked me over the years—the same kinds of questions I, too, have wrestled through with God.
Today, I wanted to share a small snippet of it with you. The following excerpt comes from a chapter dealing with grief, loss, and the mysterious mercy of God in suffering. These are not light words, nor are they meant to minimize anyone’s pain. But my prayer is that somewhere within them, those carrying sorrow may find comfort, perspective, and perhaps even a deeper glimpse into the heart of God.
Today, I wanted to share a small snippet of it with you. The following excerpt comes from a chapter dealing with grief, loss, and the mysterious mercy of God in suffering. These are not light words, nor are they meant to minimize anyone’s pain. But my prayer is that somewhere within them, those carrying sorrow may find comfort, perspective, and perhaps even a deeper glimpse into the heart of God.
WHEN GOD SPARES WHAT WE CAN’T SEE
There is a verse tucked in the book of Isaiah that never makes its way into sympathy cards or framed artwork. Yet for anyone who has lost someone too soon, it offers one of the most tender glimpses into the heart of God: “The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart: and merciful men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come” (Isaiah 57:1).
What appears to us as tragedy may, in reality, be God’s mercy. That is not something you announce at a funeral. You do not rush to tell this to a parent whose child has just passed on, or to a widow clutching her husband’s shirt. This isn’t meant to rush grief or silence tears. But in time, it can come as a tender word of comfort: Maybe God was sparing them. Or maybe… sparing you.
God sees what we cannot. In love, He may call loved ones Home early, like a Father shielding His child from a sorrow we will never know on this side of Heaven. From temptations that might have ensnared them. From pain that would have broken them. From choices that could have led them far from Him.
What if the little one you lost would have grown up in a world too harsh for their tender soul? What if the man you loved was spared from a suffering that would have stripped him of dignity and robbed you of peace? What if the relationship that fell apart was God’s way of protecting you from something that looked good, but would have eventually destroyed you?
We imagine that more time would have healed. That just a few more years, a few more chances, could have made it better. But what if more time would have only deepened the wound? What if the mercy of God stepped in to shield us?
This does not erase the pain, quiet the longing in your heart, or stop the memories from ambushing you. But it gives grief somewhere to rest: in the goodness of a Father who never guesses, never gambles, and never gets it wrong. One day, you will see what He saw. And when you do, you may find that even your hardest goodbyes were wrapped in mercy.
Until then, the ache remains. The questions still arise. Wholeness still feels far away. Yet strangely, over time, grief itself begins to grow into a deepening of your faith.
What appears to us as tragedy may, in reality, be God’s mercy. That is not something you announce at a funeral. You do not rush to tell this to a parent whose child has just passed on, or to a widow clutching her husband’s shirt. This isn’t meant to rush grief or silence tears. But in time, it can come as a tender word of comfort: Maybe God was sparing them. Or maybe… sparing you.
God sees what we cannot. In love, He may call loved ones Home early, like a Father shielding His child from a sorrow we will never know on this side of Heaven. From temptations that might have ensnared them. From pain that would have broken them. From choices that could have led them far from Him.
What if the little one you lost would have grown up in a world too harsh for their tender soul? What if the man you loved was spared from a suffering that would have stripped him of dignity and robbed you of peace? What if the relationship that fell apart was God’s way of protecting you from something that looked good, but would have eventually destroyed you?
We imagine that more time would have healed. That just a few more years, a few more chances, could have made it better. But what if more time would have only deepened the wound? What if the mercy of God stepped in to shield us?
This does not erase the pain, quiet the longing in your heart, or stop the memories from ambushing you. But it gives grief somewhere to rest: in the goodness of a Father who never guesses, never gambles, and never gets it wrong. One day, you will see what He saw. And when you do, you may find that even your hardest goodbyes were wrapped in mercy.
Until then, the ache remains. The questions still arise. Wholeness still feels far away. Yet strangely, over time, grief itself begins to grow into a deepening of your faith.
WHEN GRIEF GROWS FAITH
When grief first appears, it feels like it has pulled the rug out from under us, leaving us clutching at air, desperate for something solid. It tears open what we thought was secure, exposing the fragile places we did not even know existed. Suddenly, we are not only mourning what we lost; we are questioning everything we thought we knew.
And yet, in that hollow space, I have seen something holy take root. I have watched parents bury a child and still cling to God, not because they understood Him, but because they had nowhere else to run. They never “got over it,” yet in the wreckage, they learned to walk with Him in a new way.
I have seen it in a woman sitting beside her husband as cancer slowly steals him away, in a man who walked away from a crash that takes his best friend, and in a grandmother whose failing body strips her of independence. Each story reaches a breaking point. In that raw cry for God, something sacred often begins. Grief does not usually hand us answers. But it can hand us God, who sits with us in the ashes. He offers no shortcuts to healing, but He offers Himself.
Faith is not forged in comfort. It is born in the ruins. In the stillness after the storm. In the prayer too broken for words. In the moment, you do not know how to take another breath.
Before loss, we leaned on routines, relationships, and the illusion of control. Grief strips those supports away until all that remains is the Rock beneath it all. And when we land on Him, we discover He is enough.
It is then that this ancient promise takes on flesh and bone: “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit” (Psalm 34:18).
The people I have met with the deepest, most unshakable faith did not find it sitting in church pews. They found it in the wilderness of significant loss, walking with God in the fires of adversity. And when they speak, you can feel the weight in their words, the tenderness in their worship, and the gravity in their prayers.
That kind of faith is not cheap. It may wobble. It may wrestle. Yet it endures because it is built on clinging to God when everything else is gone. If you are still shaking, questioning why, and struggling to breathe through the wreckage, please know that your grief is not a detour from God. It may be the very soil where your roots sink deeper into Him. And as strange as it sounds, what begins to grow in you may one day give life to others, too…..
And yet, in that hollow space, I have seen something holy take root. I have watched parents bury a child and still cling to God, not because they understood Him, but because they had nowhere else to run. They never “got over it,” yet in the wreckage, they learned to walk with Him in a new way.
I have seen it in a woman sitting beside her husband as cancer slowly steals him away, in a man who walked away from a crash that takes his best friend, and in a grandmother whose failing body strips her of independence. Each story reaches a breaking point. In that raw cry for God, something sacred often begins. Grief does not usually hand us answers. But it can hand us God, who sits with us in the ashes. He offers no shortcuts to healing, but He offers Himself.
Faith is not forged in comfort. It is born in the ruins. In the stillness after the storm. In the prayer too broken for words. In the moment, you do not know how to take another breath.
Before loss, we leaned on routines, relationships, and the illusion of control. Grief strips those supports away until all that remains is the Rock beneath it all. And when we land on Him, we discover He is enough.
It is then that this ancient promise takes on flesh and bone: “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit” (Psalm 34:18).
The people I have met with the deepest, most unshakable faith did not find it sitting in church pews. They found it in the wilderness of significant loss, walking with God in the fires of adversity. And when they speak, you can feel the weight in their words, the tenderness in their worship, and the gravity in their prayers.
That kind of faith is not cheap. It may wobble. It may wrestle. Yet it endures because it is built on clinging to God when everything else is gone. If you are still shaking, questioning why, and struggling to breathe through the wreckage, please know that your grief is not a detour from God. It may be the very soil where your roots sink deeper into Him. And as strange as it sounds, what begins to grow in you may one day give life to others, too…..
These reflections are only a small window into a much larger conversation this chapter continues to walk through—questions of grief, faith, and the often hidden ways God meets us in suffering. My hope is that what follows in the book would not simply be read, but gently received, especially by those who find themselves still carrying more questions than answers.
If the excerpt you read today resonated with you, I hope you will consider getting a copy of the book and prayerfully reflecting on the insights and lessons God has taught me through suffering, ministry, and years of walking alongside brokenhearted people around the world. You can learn more or order a copy at MissionFrontier.info/ItIsEnough.
If the excerpt you read today resonated with you, I hope you will consider getting a copy of the book and prayerfully reflecting on the insights and lessons God has taught me through suffering, ministry, and years of walking alongside brokenhearted people around the world. You can learn more or order a copy at MissionFrontier.info/ItIsEnough.
