This week's blog is a peek into my upcoming book, It Is Enough! Finding Purpose in Suffering. I want to share Chapter 1 with you—my heart behind the words, and the journey I’ve walked through pain and discovery. If you sense this speaks to you, you can PRE-ORDER the book at www.MissionFrontier.info/ItIsEnough.
Is suffering good? Some will tell you it is—that it is not only good, but a hidden treasure, a gem we are meant to cherish. But how can that be true? How can something we hate, something that breaks us, that steals our sleep and gnaws at our hearts be good for us?
If you have ever felt that ache in your chest, or the hollowness of a life disrupted by loss or pain, you know the answer feels impossible. And yet, it is a question we cannot escape.
I know that ache intimately. There is a kind of pain you do not speak of—and not because you are hiding. It is often unspeakable because there are not enough words to comprehend it or explain it. I have been there. I still carry painful memories laced with confusion, my innocence stolen, and shame pressing silence over my mouth. For years, I carried that ache in the dark corners of my heart, hoping no one could see.
But pain has a way of finding us again, just when we think we are safe. I first heard its haunted hush in a hospital waiting room as a teenager. The silence felt thick in my chest, and the dread of waiting filled the air under the hum of sterile fluorescent lights. Shoes pacing linoleum. Prayers cried into air too thin to hold them.
A loved one had been shot in the head. The bullet tore through one temple and out the other. I stood stunned, surrounded by family, too shocked to cry. For days, then weeks, we held our breath, bracing for whatever might come. Hope felt fragile. Time blurred… but pain did not.
Not all suffering screams. Sometimes it whispers, slowly eroding the life you’ve built until one day, it is simply gone.
I remember, as a young adult, handing over the keys to my home. The foreclosure was final, but the despair had arrived long before. Walking away meant more than losing a home. I left stability, rest, and the place where dreams once lived. I didn’t know where I would sleep next, or how to tell anyone. I only know that I locked the door one last time, placed the keys in the banker’s hand, and pretended I still had somewhere to go. Inside, I felt hollow and paralyzed. It was as if life was unraveling while I watched from the outside.
I have seen suffering up close, which is why the pages in this book are not theory, a ten-step recovery guide, or a lecture on why hardships happen. It is a journey carved by wounds, shaped by questions I have asked, held by the God who met me in them, and the sustained hope I have found along the way.
We are living through historically difficult times, and many hearts are carrying more than they know how to express. Maybe you are on a similar path. If you have ever wondered where God is when everything falls apart… If you have ever sat alone in the dark, asking, “Why me?” If you have ever suffered in secret, too afraid to tell your story, too wounded to believe it still matters… Then this book is for you.
I do not write this as someone with all the answers. I write as someone who has been in the pit of shame and despair, covered in ashes and rubble. Yet somehow, through it all, I have discovered a God who draws near, even in our deepest pain—a Saviour who meets us at our lowest and refuses to walk away. A Saviour who does not ignore suffering, but transforms it.
This is the story I want to tell you. And it is not only my story; it is all of ours.
WHAT WE ALL CARRY QUIETLY
I wish I could sit across from you as you read these words, because if I could, I would look you in the eyes and say: I don’t know what kind of pain you’ve faced, but I know what it means to hurt.
I wonder about you—the questions that rise when the house grows silent, when the funeral ends, when betrayal cuts deep, when friends stop calling, or when the prayers you have cried seem to go unanswered. Those questions live close to the heart. And if you have asked them, you are in good company. I want to walk with you through those places so we can discover together what God is doing in the middle of it all.
Part of walking gently with others is remembering that we never fully know the weight another soul is carrying. Only they know how deeply they are being stretched. That is why I try to speak with care when someone entrusts me with their pain.
For some, their pain lies in the grief of losing someone beloved. For others, it is the pull of anxiety that never loosens its grip, or the disloyalty that shatters trust and bruises the spirit. Some carry chronic pain that gnaws at their strength day after day. Others suffer in silence, invisible to the world—but not to God.
Whatever form it takes, suffering is a universal part of the human story. It reaches every heart, every home. And when it strikes, one question always rises: Why? Why does God allow suffering? What good could possibly come from all this?
These are not abstract questions. These are questions I have wept through, wrestled with, and carried into sleepless nights—and I know I am not the only one.
After many years in ministry, walking alongside countless people whose lives are filled with grief and heartache, I have learned one thing for certain: suffering never stays far away. It does not wait for an invitation. It barges in, unannounced, and eventually visits every doorstep. It has visited me more times than I care to count.
Much of my story is already out in the open. In Confessions: A Memoir of Hope for the Suffering, I share seasons marked by betrayal, injustice, physical agony, and devastating loss. Yet through every heartbreak and every lonely night, one truth has never failed me: the comfort of God’s Holy Bible. When nothing else made sense, and no answer came, Scripture did what it always does, speaking life into death and peace into the storm.
Passages like 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 have become an integral part of my testimony: “Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.”
I have felt that comfort up close and personal; it has been my lifeline. And now, my heart is to come close to you in your crisis. I believe God has called me to extend the same comfort I have received, to meet you where you are, and to say: You are seen. You are remembered. And you are never beyond redemption.
THE UNIVERSAL QUESTION: WHY?
Suffering cannot be solved with quick fixes or oversimplified answers. And I want you to know that I am not here to hand you a cliché or patch a wound with empty words. I won’t insult your pain by saying, “It’s just part of life” or “God has a reason.” You and I both know that when the storm is raging, those words cut more than they comfort. Pain is too real to be explained away.
When you’re deep in it, logic does not help. Your body aches, your heart feels like it is about to burst. You have no song, and even your prayers seem to hit the ceiling and fall back down. You don’t want a theological lecture. You want to know someone sees you. To know God has not turned His face away.
And in moments like that, sometimes, it’s not about understanding the pain—it is about knowing you are not abandoned while experiencing it.
Even Scripture, when tossed out carelessly, can feel like a slap in the face. Maybe you’ve been there, broken and trembling, and someone quotes Romans 8:28 (you know, “all things work together for good…”) at you like it’s a bandage. And instead of bringing peace, it is suffocating.
Here is the good news: Jesus never treated suffering lightly. He did not toss out Scripture like aspirin. He stepped into suffering Himself. He walked straight into the fire for us and with us.
Hanging on the cross, beaten and bloodied with lashes cut to the bone, Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” He was entirely God, fully human, hanging between Heaven and Earth, breathing agony and exhaling anguish. His flesh had been torn open. His hands and feet were pierced. But it was more than physical pain. It was the weight of becoming all of humanity’s sin, the despising shame, and the agony of being forsaken by the Father—all bearing down on Him at once. And He chose to experience that—for you.
So, when you cry out and wonder if anyone understands, you do not have to look any further than the cross. There, Jesus did not merely speak about suffering—He embodied it.
And the cross was not an isolated moment—it was the culmination of a life marked by suffering, humility, and love. Before His death and resurrection, He lived among the poor. He was misunderstood and overlooked. He had no place to lay His head, no position in society, no army to defend Him. His friends often failed Him. His enemies hated and reviled Him. And yet, He kept loving. Kept walking. Kept giving.
He was, as the Prophet Isaiah said, “a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief” (Isiah 53:3).
So when you ask God, “Why,” He does not rebuke you for asking. He does not demand we hold it all together. Instead, He invites us to bring our doubts and broken questions to Him. He meets us there, not always with immediate answers, but always with truth and love.
God may permit what He hates in order to accomplish what He loves. Knowing this, I have come to believe with all my heart that your suffering is not meaningless. It may feel random. It may seem cruel. But God never wastes it.
You may not see the whole picture right now. You might be living in a season that feels chaotic. But there is an Author at work. One day, you will look back and realize that God was doing something sacred in your sorrow. He was building your trust, deepening your faith, and forming something in you that could not be done any other way.
So, before we ask why suffering exists, let’s anchor ourselves in the fact that we are not alone. Jesus meets us in our lowest pits—not with lectures but with love. He enters the pain, walks through it with us, and slowly turns it into something filled with meaning and purpose. This is the foundation we must stand on before exploring the deeper questions of sin, sorrow, and redemption.
So, take a breath with me, and let’s keep walking forward.
RETURN TO ALL BLOGS
If you have ever felt that ache in your chest, or the hollowness of a life disrupted by loss or pain, you know the answer feels impossible. And yet, it is a question we cannot escape.
I know that ache intimately. There is a kind of pain you do not speak of—and not because you are hiding. It is often unspeakable because there are not enough words to comprehend it or explain it. I have been there. I still carry painful memories laced with confusion, my innocence stolen, and shame pressing silence over my mouth. For years, I carried that ache in the dark corners of my heart, hoping no one could see.
But pain has a way of finding us again, just when we think we are safe. I first heard its haunted hush in a hospital waiting room as a teenager. The silence felt thick in my chest, and the dread of waiting filled the air under the hum of sterile fluorescent lights. Shoes pacing linoleum. Prayers cried into air too thin to hold them.
A loved one had been shot in the head. The bullet tore through one temple and out the other. I stood stunned, surrounded by family, too shocked to cry. For days, then weeks, we held our breath, bracing for whatever might come. Hope felt fragile. Time blurred… but pain did not.
Not all suffering screams. Sometimes it whispers, slowly eroding the life you’ve built until one day, it is simply gone.
I remember, as a young adult, handing over the keys to my home. The foreclosure was final, but the despair had arrived long before. Walking away meant more than losing a home. I left stability, rest, and the place where dreams once lived. I didn’t know where I would sleep next, or how to tell anyone. I only know that I locked the door one last time, placed the keys in the banker’s hand, and pretended I still had somewhere to go. Inside, I felt hollow and paralyzed. It was as if life was unraveling while I watched from the outside.
I have seen suffering up close, which is why the pages in this book are not theory, a ten-step recovery guide, or a lecture on why hardships happen. It is a journey carved by wounds, shaped by questions I have asked, held by the God who met me in them, and the sustained hope I have found along the way.
We are living through historically difficult times, and many hearts are carrying more than they know how to express. Maybe you are on a similar path. If you have ever wondered where God is when everything falls apart… If you have ever sat alone in the dark, asking, “Why me?” If you have ever suffered in secret, too afraid to tell your story, too wounded to believe it still matters… Then this book is for you.
I do not write this as someone with all the answers. I write as someone who has been in the pit of shame and despair, covered in ashes and rubble. Yet somehow, through it all, I have discovered a God who draws near, even in our deepest pain—a Saviour who meets us at our lowest and refuses to walk away. A Saviour who does not ignore suffering, but transforms it.
This is the story I want to tell you. And it is not only my story; it is all of ours.
WHAT WE ALL CARRY QUIETLY
I wish I could sit across from you as you read these words, because if I could, I would look you in the eyes and say: I don’t know what kind of pain you’ve faced, but I know what it means to hurt.
I wonder about you—the questions that rise when the house grows silent, when the funeral ends, when betrayal cuts deep, when friends stop calling, or when the prayers you have cried seem to go unanswered. Those questions live close to the heart. And if you have asked them, you are in good company. I want to walk with you through those places so we can discover together what God is doing in the middle of it all.
Part of walking gently with others is remembering that we never fully know the weight another soul is carrying. Only they know how deeply they are being stretched. That is why I try to speak with care when someone entrusts me with their pain.
For some, their pain lies in the grief of losing someone beloved. For others, it is the pull of anxiety that never loosens its grip, or the disloyalty that shatters trust and bruises the spirit. Some carry chronic pain that gnaws at their strength day after day. Others suffer in silence, invisible to the world—but not to God.
Whatever form it takes, suffering is a universal part of the human story. It reaches every heart, every home. And when it strikes, one question always rises: Why? Why does God allow suffering? What good could possibly come from all this?
These are not abstract questions. These are questions I have wept through, wrestled with, and carried into sleepless nights—and I know I am not the only one.
After many years in ministry, walking alongside countless people whose lives are filled with grief and heartache, I have learned one thing for certain: suffering never stays far away. It does not wait for an invitation. It barges in, unannounced, and eventually visits every doorstep. It has visited me more times than I care to count.
Much of my story is already out in the open. In Confessions: A Memoir of Hope for the Suffering, I share seasons marked by betrayal, injustice, physical agony, and devastating loss. Yet through every heartbreak and every lonely night, one truth has never failed me: the comfort of God’s Holy Bible. When nothing else made sense, and no answer came, Scripture did what it always does, speaking life into death and peace into the storm.
Passages like 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 have become an integral part of my testimony: “Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.”
I have felt that comfort up close and personal; it has been my lifeline. And now, my heart is to come close to you in your crisis. I believe God has called me to extend the same comfort I have received, to meet you where you are, and to say: You are seen. You are remembered. And you are never beyond redemption.
THE UNIVERSAL QUESTION: WHY?
Suffering cannot be solved with quick fixes or oversimplified answers. And I want you to know that I am not here to hand you a cliché or patch a wound with empty words. I won’t insult your pain by saying, “It’s just part of life” or “God has a reason.” You and I both know that when the storm is raging, those words cut more than they comfort. Pain is too real to be explained away.
When you’re deep in it, logic does not help. Your body aches, your heart feels like it is about to burst. You have no song, and even your prayers seem to hit the ceiling and fall back down. You don’t want a theological lecture. You want to know someone sees you. To know God has not turned His face away.
And in moments like that, sometimes, it’s not about understanding the pain—it is about knowing you are not abandoned while experiencing it.
Even Scripture, when tossed out carelessly, can feel like a slap in the face. Maybe you’ve been there, broken and trembling, and someone quotes Romans 8:28 (you know, “all things work together for good…”) at you like it’s a bandage. And instead of bringing peace, it is suffocating.
Here is the good news: Jesus never treated suffering lightly. He did not toss out Scripture like aspirin. He stepped into suffering Himself. He walked straight into the fire for us and with us.
Hanging on the cross, beaten and bloodied with lashes cut to the bone, Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” He was entirely God, fully human, hanging between Heaven and Earth, breathing agony and exhaling anguish. His flesh had been torn open. His hands and feet were pierced. But it was more than physical pain. It was the weight of becoming all of humanity’s sin, the despising shame, and the agony of being forsaken by the Father—all bearing down on Him at once. And He chose to experience that—for you.
So, when you cry out and wonder if anyone understands, you do not have to look any further than the cross. There, Jesus did not merely speak about suffering—He embodied it.
And the cross was not an isolated moment—it was the culmination of a life marked by suffering, humility, and love. Before His death and resurrection, He lived among the poor. He was misunderstood and overlooked. He had no place to lay His head, no position in society, no army to defend Him. His friends often failed Him. His enemies hated and reviled Him. And yet, He kept loving. Kept walking. Kept giving.
He was, as the Prophet Isaiah said, “a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief” (Isiah 53:3).
So when you ask God, “Why,” He does not rebuke you for asking. He does not demand we hold it all together. Instead, He invites us to bring our doubts and broken questions to Him. He meets us there, not always with immediate answers, but always with truth and love.
God may permit what He hates in order to accomplish what He loves. Knowing this, I have come to believe with all my heart that your suffering is not meaningless. It may feel random. It may seem cruel. But God never wastes it.
You may not see the whole picture right now. You might be living in a season that feels chaotic. But there is an Author at work. One day, you will look back and realize that God was doing something sacred in your sorrow. He was building your trust, deepening your faith, and forming something in you that could not be done any other way.
So, before we ask why suffering exists, let’s anchor ourselves in the fact that we are not alone. Jesus meets us in our lowest pits—not with lectures but with love. He enters the pain, walks through it with us, and slowly turns it into something filled with meaning and purpose. This is the foundation we must stand on before exploring the deeper questions of sin, sorrow, and redemption.
So, take a breath with me, and let’s keep walking forward.
RETURN TO ALL BLOGS
