The international church service was vibrant with voices lifted up in songs of praise. Many clapped their hands and some even danced before God. But I wanted to be invisible. Joy felt like a land depicted in a fairy tale. I had returned from the hospital yesterday—a surgery to remove the baby who had died in my womb. Watching this church buzz with happiness unearthed my fragileness.
I slouched in my chair and closed my eyes. Tears trickled down my freckled face. My mind knew that God was in control, but my heart ached as yet another thing I had hoped for dried up like an autumn leaf.
God it hurts so much. I can’t stand up and sing.
My Savior’s words were a balm to my heart: Oh dear one, I’m not asking you to shout for joy. But taste my goodness even in your sorrow.
The Lord wasn’t ignoring my pain, but pointing toward his steadfast goodness even when I didn’t have the capacity to vocalize praise.
As silent tears adorned my cheeks, I rested in his presence—even when I couldn’t make sense of the pain.
I cry out to God Most High, to God who fulfills his purpose for me. (Psalm 57:2)
I clung to Jesus as my grief raged like a blizzard in the Midwest. The pain was relentless, leaving me in a dark place at times. But I wasn’t abandoned. When bitterness and sorrow filled my cup, I sipped God’s goodness in his faithful presence. He never left me, but held me close as I mourned.
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