Suffering changes our vision.

Just as our natural eyes can’t see as well in the dark, in suffering we struggle to see beyond our pressing needs. Everything looks hazy — except our problems, which seem disproportionately clear and intense. It takes the eyes of faith to see past our present circumstances to the presence and provision of God.

Seeing with the eyes of faith requires us to be intentional about where we focus. I recently took a picture in portrait mode on my phone, and I noticed that what I focused on was remarkably vivid and sharp, while the surroundings were fuzzy and blurred. I could barely identify what was in the background. The same is true in suffering. Whatever we focus on will capture our attention, and everything else can fade into the background.

Looking Through Another Lens

When God first brought the Israelites to the edge of the promised land, Moses told them to spy out the country God had given them. The spies returned after forty days, acknowledging that the land was flowing with milk and honey, but focusing their attention on the giants who lived there (Numbers 13:31–33). God’s promises and provision faded into the background, and the people succumbed to fear.

“It takes the eyes of faith to see past our present circumstances to the presence and provision of God.”

Forty years later, Joshua led the Israelites to the border of the promised land with even more obstacles. The same giants inhabited the territory, but now they needed to cross the overflowing Jordan River and conquer a walled city. But this time, the people didn’t hesitate or mention turning back. They focused on God, taking courage that he was with them, and the hurdles disappeared into the background. Rather than looking through the lens of fear, they looked through the lens of faith, focusing on God’s presence, protection, and provision.

Faith allows us to see far beyond our natural vision, assuring us of what we hope for but cannot yet see with our physical eyes (Hebrews 11:1). This spiritual sight is a gift from God, and with it we see our lives through a different lens. But why do we need it? When God opens our eyes, what can we see?

Show Us Wonders

Scripture becomes alive with meaning when God illuminates it for us. The Bible is inspired by God, and we need his Spirit to understand it (1 Corinthians 2:14). We can research and analyze Scripture and even read the original in Hebrew and Greek, but if God doesn’t reveal the truth to us, we cannot see it.

“Even when we feel as though we’re lying in the dust, God’s word can revive us.”

One way to get that sight is to pray, “Open my eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of your law” (Psalm 119:18). Just as the resurrected Jesus opened the disciples’ minds on the road to Emmaus to understand Scripture (Luke 24:45), God can do the same for us. The Bible moves from mere typewritten words on a page to Spirit-breathed words that change us — words that give life to our souls, give us wisdom and joy, and help us see the deep things of God. Even when we feel as though we’re lying in the dust, God’s word can revive us.

GOD’S PROTECTION

When God revives us, our spiritual eyes can see his protection as we look into the heavenly realms. Even though we may feel alone, outnumbered by our troubles and enemies, we can be certain that, in Christ, heaven’s armies are with us. When Elisha and his servant were surrounded by the Syrian army, Elisha prayed that the eyes of his servant would be opened. And when they were, the servant saw that the hills were filled with horses and chariots of fire. The heavenly realms surrounded them, and they both knew that there were more with them than against them (2 Kings 6:15–17).

Likewise, believing that the help of heaven is surrounding us can change how we face battles, whether we’re struggling against hostile people or alone in our rooms. Wherever we are, we are never truly alone.

GOD’S PROVISION

In addition to his protection, God opens our eyes to his provision right in front of us. When Hagar was sent away with her son Ishmael, she wept when their water supply ran out and feared Ishmael would die. Then God opened her eyes to see a well of water that would provide for them (Genesis 21:19), most likely reminding her of years earlier when she declared, “You are a God of seeing. . . . Truly here I have seen him who looks after me” (Genesis 16:13). Hagar understood that God provides for and looks after us, even when we have no resources. The ability to recognize God’s provision is a gift, so those who don’t trust in God may not see good even when it comes.

GOD’S PRESENCE

Perhaps the greatest gift of spiritual sight is to recognize God’s presence. Jacob wrestled with God, at first not knowing who he was, but eventually realizing he had seen God face to face (Genesis 32:30). This encounter changed Jacob forever — leaving him with a limp, but more importantly with a faith that never turned back. After seeing God, like Jacob, we will never be the same.

Even though we may intellectually know God is always with us, we need to pay attention to see him and be aware of his presence. Signs of his love are all around, but we need to connect them to him. It may be as simple as noticing the wisdom we have when we ask for it. Or the inexplicable comfort we receive when we cry out. Or the unexpected phone call after we pray. Connecting those gifts with God’s presence in our life can transform our suffering. Both Mary Magdalene at the tomb and the disciples on the road to Emmaus were dejected and discouraged until they recognized Jesus, and then they were filled with joy and peace. So it is with us. Knowing that God is with us, not just intellectually but experientially, can radically alter how we feel in our suffering.

Sight That Changes Suffering

When we turn to God, he opens our eyes and shows us hidden treasures of darkness that we might know him (Isaiah 45:3). But since our vision is limited in the dark, we need to be purposeful about where we focus. If we view life through the lens of pain and discouragement, we will focus on all that is wrong and difficult. We will see our problems more than God’s provision. We will see our loneliness more than God’s presence. We will fixate more on our fears than on God’s promises.

What lens are you viewing your life through? Are you asking God for supernatural sight as you focus on him? Are you looking at the obstacles in front of you, or are you beholding the God who can move mountains? Are you trusting in your ability to fix the situation, or are you entrusting yourself to the God who commands the dawn? Are you focusing on what you don’t have, or are you centered on the fact that our God owns the cattle on a thousand hills?

What we look at and focus on will change us. As we behold the Lord Jesus, he will transform us (2 Corinthians 3:18), but if we concentrate on our fears, they will consume us. If we put God’s steadfast love before our eyes (Psalm 26:3), then we will see his presence, protection, and provision more than we see our problems. He will delight us with Scripture even in our deepest affliction. We will rest in his protection, knowing he goes before us and will fight for us. We will see his marvelous provision, sending manna from heaven and water from a rock. We will know that he is with us, as our spiritual eyes will see our Teacher (Isaiah 30:20).

And as we walk by faith and not by sight, relying on what we know to be true rather than what we see, we will not be disappointed. “For we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:18).

Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. (John 11:21, 32)

To me, this passage from John 11 is one of the most poignant in all the Gospels. It reflects the heartbreak of sisters who had been sure Jesus would save their brother — women who loved Jesus and sacrificed for him, a family that needed his help and called to him in their distress. Yet Jesus did not respond to his friends’ urgent request. He sent no answer, but simply showed up after their brother was dead.

On the surface, this story is shocking. It doesn’t fit with our definition of love. To us, love rescues and runs. Love doesn’t wait. Love does everything possible to keep the beloved from pain. Yet in understanding how Jesus loved this family, I have seen the depth of his love for me in my own suffering.

Lazarus’s Last Breath

Days before the words above were spoken, Mary and Martha had sent a message to Jesus that their brother, Lazarus, was ill (John 11:3). They likely expected that Jesus would leave immediately to see his dear friend, or perhaps even heal him right there with a word. They knew he was the coming Christ, the Son of God, and that God would give him whatever he asked (John 11:22, 27). They had witnessed Jesus heal countless strangers, responding without delay to their requests for help. Surely he would show up for his friends.

Yet Jesus didn’t respond to their urgent need, choosing to stay where he was for two whole days (John 11:6). He told the disciples that Lazarus’s illness was for the glory of God, that he himself would be glorified through it, and that others would believe because of it (John 11:4, 14–15). At the same time, Jesus knew his intentional delay would bewilder his friends.

I imagine the sisters waiting by the window where Lazarus lay dying, straining to see if Jesus was coming. I picture them reassuring each other that Jesus would surely arrive in time to heal Lazarus. I wonder what each was thinking as Lazarus took his last breath. Were they disappointed and disillusioned with Jesus, even questioning their relationship with him? Did they wonder if Jesus even cared? Did they doubt whether Jesus was the Savior they hoped him to be?

Whatever inner turmoil they were feeling, the sisters had to go on. They needed to bury Lazarus and prepare their home, which would be flooded with people who would come to console them. Some may have asked why Jesus didn’t save Lazarus, perhaps mirroring the question asked later by bystanders: “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man also have kept this man from dying?” (John 11:37).

Jesus with the Sisters

In the middle of their grieving, Jesus arrived. The sisters independently met him and uttered the same plaintive words: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (John 11:21, 32). Though they had lost hope of ever seeing their brother again, neither ran from Jesus in their despair, or stayed aloof to protect themselves, or pretended his inaction hadn’t hurt them. Instead, they went to Jesus, directly telling him how they felt.

Jesus responded differently to each sister, knowing what each needed. Martha needed truth; she needed to understand and reaffirm her belief in Jesus as God’s Son. Jesus told her that he was the resurrection and the life, and that whoever believed in him would never die (John 11:25–26). And later, he assured her that if she believed, she would see the glory of God (John 11:40). Mary, on the other hand, needed tears and comfort, and she wept at Jesus’s feet as soon as she saw him (John 11:32). Jesus wept with her (John 11:35).

Then, of course, Jesus told them to remove the stone, and he commanded Lazarus to come out. And Lazarus walked out of the grave (John 11:38–44)!

This miracle has layers of purpose and meaning. Jesus’s raising of Lazarus caused people to believe in him (John 11:45) and established his power over death. And from it we see the nature of love as we understand how Jesus’s delay was the most loving thing he could do (John 11:5–6).

Following Mary and Martha

I remember reading the Bible one night when my world was splintering. I had been crying in the dark, wondering how I could go on. The unthinkable had happened, and I couldn’t understand why God hadn’t stopped it. I had been faithful. I loved Jesus and knew he loved me. So why hadn’t he rescued me from my nightmares?

I got up, pulled on my robe, and opened my Bible to John 11. As I reread this familiar story, I identified with Mary and Martha’s words to Jesus. If Jesus had shown up for me, this never would have happened. Since he didn’t respond to my pleading, my begging him to fix it, it seemed like he had abandoned me when I needed him most.

Yet I saw that even in their despair, the sisters went directly to Jesus, their words intimating their unspoken question: Why didn’t you come? I realized that I needed to go to him too. I told him my frustrations and fears, my utter disappointment that he hadn’t shown up for me. I asked him to help me, to meet me as he met these sisters, that I might see the glory of God as well.

Glory in My Grief

I approached Jesus feeling desperate, full of raw emotion, terrified of the free fall I was experiencing. Nothing felt stable or familiar. And yet, in that moment, God came near. I felt the unmistakable sense of his presence and love, coupled with the absolute assurance that everything was under control. There was purpose to my pain, even when I couldn’t understand it, even when all I could see was loss.

“There was purpose to my pain, even when I couldn’t understand it, even when all I could see was loss.”

I realized that God was giving me a sight of his glory. I sat in the stillness of the night, bent over my Bible, tears streaming down my face. This glimpse of God’s glory was far better than a pain-free life. Far better than healing. Far better than any pleasure I’d known. This was a foretaste of heaven, where ecstasy in God overshadows everything else.

Then I understood. Just as the psalmist questioned God’s fairness until he entered the temple (Psalm 73:16–17), I now saw my situation differently. And like the psalmist, I could proclaim despite my disappointment,

Nevertheless, I am continually with you;     you hold my right hand.You guide me with your counsel,     and afterward you will receive me to glory.Whom have I in heaven but you?     And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.My flesh and my heart may fail,     but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. (Psalm 73:23–26)

Being with God, having his guidance, knowing he will one day receive me into glory was all I needed. I finally saw why letting Lazarus die was the most loving thing Jesus could do for this family. He knew that helping them see the glory of God firsthand was the greatest gift imaginable. It would cement their belief in him, their certainty that he was indeed the Son of God, and their assurance that Jesus had power over death.

God’s Greatest Act of Love

The most loving thing God can do is to show us his glory. All physical healing is temporary since we will eventually die (unless he returns first). But anything that helps us see and experience God’s glory will last throughout eternity. It will change us. It will help us treasure Christ and will give us lasting joy. Believing in Christ, seeing the glory of God, is a gift. Not everyone sees it. Those who have experienced it will view their life and their suffering with new eyes, in light of the knowledge of God’s glory in the face of Christ (2 Corinthians 4:6).

“The most loving thing God can do is to show us his glory.”

From this story, we see that God’s love does not shield us from suffering. The pain of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, people whom Jesus dearly loved, was real and intense. They had to wait in the dark, wondering why Jesus hadn’t shown up. He cared about their pain, weeping with them as he saw their grief, all the while certain that their grief would turn to joy. Our grief will also turn to joy — on earth, as we see and are satisfied in God, and ultimately in heaven, when we see him face to face.

The most loving thing that God can do is to increase our faith in him, to show us his glory, to help us find our satisfaction in him. Truly, if we believe, we will see the glory of God.

We all want to help when our friends are hurting, but we may not be sure where to begin. Do we give them space and tell them to call if they need anything, or do we dive in and try to fix everything? Do we ask questions, or do we wait for them to initiate and speak? While the answers are unique to each person and situation, I’ve learned a great deal from my ministry to suffering people (as well as from my own experiences of loss).

The first thing God calls us to do for our hurting friends is to pray. It may be helpful to divide our prayer into three areas — their spiritual, physical, and emotional needs. So, we can pray that they would turn to the Lord Jesus and find peace in him even in their trial. We might pray for daily strength, physical healing, and financial provision. And we could pray that they not feel anxious or afraid, and that they’d be surrounded by caring friends.

We can also pray for ourselves. I ask the Lord to prompt me to pray for hurting friends regularly and to show me what to pray. I also ask him to help me fulfill my good intentions and to make my efforts toward them fruitful (2 Thessalonians 1:11).

In addition to prayer, though, there are other tangible ways to minister to hurting friends. Four ways that I’ve found particularly helpful are represented by the acronym SLOW. That acronym reinforces that God is working even though change seems slow, and it reminds me that I need to be slow to speak and quick to listen (James 1:19).

Show Up

Having people show up is critical in the early days of loss and even long afterward. God created us to live in community. It is not good for us to be alone. We need each other, and wanting company is not a sign of weakness. Even Jesus wanted friends with him in his anguish, asking them to wait, watch, and pray (Mark 14:32–35).

In Job, we see the importance of this presence. When Job’s friends first heard of his enormous suffering, “they made an appointment together to come and show him sympathy and comfort him” (Job 2:11). They didn’t remain at a distance. “They raised their voices and wept” with him (Job 2:12).

“Just being there can give people strength to move forward, knowing that they are not alone.”

Sometimes we don’t show up because we don’t know what we’ll say. But we don’t need to have eloquent words, or any words — just our presence and love. Personally, I always welcome dark chocolate or salty snacks, but we don’t need to bring anything. Just being there can give people strength to move forward, knowing that they are not alone.

Listen

Few people are anxious to hear mini-sermons in the midst of their pain. Most would prefer to have friends listen or just sit with them in silence. On this score, Job’s friends were a good example (at least for seven days) when they sat with Job without saying a word (Job 2:13).

For the rest of the book, however, they berated him till he begged, “Listen closely to what I’m saying. That’s one consolation you can give me. Bear with me with me, and let me speak . . .” (Job 21:1–2 NLT). Rather than compassionately listening, Job’s friends kept offering advice and cliché theology.

Job knew his words were raw. He wanted his friends to listen as he processed his questions and losses aloud rather than arguing with him. He asked, “Do you intend to rebuke my words, when the words of one in despair belong to the wind?” (Job 6:26 NASB). Part of listening well in moments like these is patiently letting people speak without interrupting or judging them, prayerfully listening to their pain, and letting some of their complaints be as words to the wind. Listening allows people to lament and sit in the dark parts of their grief without trying to fix it or expecting them to rush through it.

The best counselors actively listen, not immediately giving advice or critique, but rather offering space for people to process their emotions and experiences. They ask thoughtful questions, pay attention to verbal and nonverbal responses, and offer reflections on what they notice. Offering that type of listening to our friends may be more healing and life-giving than anything else we do.

Offer Specific Help

Offering physical help is time consuming, and it’s easy to assume other people are taking care of those needs. But God calls us to care for our brothers and sisters rather than just telling them to go in peace without providing for their physical needs (James 2:15–16). Pray about what God would have you offer, considering the person’s needs as well as your own abilities and limitations. Sometimes our Lord calls us to give beyond what feels comfortable (2 Corinthians 8:3–5), but he also promises to supply the strength we need (1 Peter 4:10–11).

For our suffering friends, everyday tasks may feel monumental. Yet they often don’t know what they need or even what might be helpful. When we offer specific ways that we can help, we are serving them in multiple ways.

“While offering help requires forethought and sacrifice, the value to our friends often far exceeds our effort.”

Often, what they need is as simple as walking their dog, dropping off a meal, or babysitting their children for a few hours. Offering gift certificates for food-delivery services is also a great substitute for homemade meals. If you enjoy doing yardwork, are good with computers, or like folding laundry or doing anything else, offer your help in those areas. Or consider offering a block of time by saying, “I have Thursday from 2:00 to 4:00 free. Can I run some errands or help you with anything then?” While offering help requires forethought and sacrifice, the value to our friends often far exceeds our effort.

Words of Grace

Offering words of grace at the right time, spoken or written, can encourage others in their faith just as Jonathan helped David find strength in God (1 Samuel 23:16).

Timing is important, and there are some words that are better to avoid. Saying anything that begins with “at least,” offering false assurances, or encouraging people to “look on the bright side” can feel minimizing. Even sound advice or Scripture offered at the wrong time can feel insensitive. Romans 8:28 has deeply shaped my theology, but it felt heartless hearing it from a friend at my son’s funeral. That day, I longed for sympathy and understanding.

While throwing Bible verses and theology at people can be overwhelming at times, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t share our faith. We should be eager to tell people the reason for our hope, but we should do it tenderly, with gentleness and respect (1 Peter 3:15–16). And after we share how God has met us in our own struggles, we can trust that the Holy Spirit will use our words. We needn’t belabor the point or press for a response.

When I talk about my faith, I often share three truths that have encouraged me in the pit. The first truth is that we have God’s presence. We know that Jesus is always with us — preparing us, strengthening us, and upholding us (Isaiah 41:10) — and nothing can separate us from his love (Romans 8:38–39). The second truth is that our suffering is not meaningless. God is using it both for our good and for his glory (Genesis 50:20; Romans 8:28), and nothing and no one can thwart his divine purposes (Job 42:2). The final truth that I cling to is that my real home is in heaven (John 14:2–3), where there will be no more tears or crying or pain (Revelation 21:4).

Come Close

If you have a friend who is struggling and don’t know how to help, perhaps start by getting together. Be prepared to come close — not standing on the edge, waiting to be asked, but willingly entering the messiness of pain. It probably means listening and praying more than speaking, along with offering specific help as you are able. It also means being willing to share the hope and comfort that God has given you, confident that your witness will not be in vain.

Your friend’s healing may seem slow, but trust that God is using your efforts in ways that will one day shine in glory.

Surviving a crisis is more than making it through the first day of disaster.

That initial day is often a blur. We operate on autopilot, numb to what’s happened. Our stomachs twist into ever-tightening knots as we try to make sense of the unthinkable.

We may lean into God for strength to survive the next moment, and he shows up in unmistakable ways. God feels close, friendships feel intimate, help is all around. We trust God with the future since we can’t think beyond today.

This experience is like being suddenly thrown into the wilderness with nothing but the clothes we are wearing. We are disoriented and don’t know our way around or how to survive. So we call out to God, who sends angels to feed us, as he did for Elijah (1 Kings 19:4–8). He strengthens us when we want to give up. He knows that we’re exhausted.

This is utter dependence on God. Somehow we are enduring because God is sustaining. Whether we’re kneeling or prostrate or curled up in a ball, we recognize our hopelessness before God. Moment by moment, we see our need for him.

Wilderness of Bewilderment

After my son died, I felt God carrying me as friends surrounded me. I declared boldly at his funeral that God never makes a mistake (and I firmly believe those words). But months later, walking past an empty room and reliving the events of Paul’s last days, I spiraled downward. Could I have prevented this? Why didn’t God save him? Why doesn’t God protect his people who’ve been faithful?

The God who once felt breathtakingly near now felt miles away. Reality had settled in, and I was left feeling lost and lonely. I wondered what happened to the hope and faith that had characterized those early days.

This stage of unsettledness has occurred after every major crisis I’ve been through. Maybe you can relate to that bewilderment. Waking up every morning without the one you love. Realizing that doctors’ appointments, physical pain, and emotional distress will be part of life going forward. Adjusting to a life of limitation without the rush of support you once had. These can all be part of the long and lingering tail of suffering.

We realize we’ve gone farther into the wilderness. One meal from an angel isn’t enough. We need food for an indefinite time. We want to get out, to move past all the pain, but somehow we can’t figure out how to escape. Every route we take is a dead end. We are tired of dependence and want to return to a place of security and comfort.

Worn Down by Distress

We see this pattern in Scripture. Job was a righteous man who responded with faith and trust the day everything was taken away. He worshiped God and recognized that God alone could give and take away. Even when his body was covered with sores, Job leaned on God. But after sitting in agony in the dirt, day after day, Job couldn’t maintain his worshipful demeanor. He lamented to everyone, wondering why God hadn’t rescued him yet. The long and lingering tail of suffering was wearing him down.

Similarly, God delivered the Israelites from slavery, but they grew discouraged in the heart of the wilderness. They wondered why God had brought them there and longed for the life they once had. Even though they had been slaves, at least their lives had been more certain then. The long and lingering tail of suffering was wearing them down.

God kept providing for the Israelites, but like many of us, they didn’t appreciate his provision. As Nehemiah acknowledged to God,

You in your great mercies did not forsake them in the wilderness. The pillar of cloud to lead them in the way did not depart from them by day, nor the pillar of fire by night to light for them the way by which they should go. You gave your good Spirit to instruct them and did not withhold your manna from their mouth and gave them water for their thirst. Forty years you sustained them in the wilderness, and they lacked nothing. Their clothes did not wear out and their feet did not swell. (Nehemiah 9:19–21)

God was offering his children sustaining grace, but sustenance wasn’t what they wanted.

Unlikely Promised Land

In Trusting God in the Wilderness, Ted Wueste offers an invaluable perspective on God’s provision:

On a foundational level, God always provides what is truly needed to live a life of dependence. Let that sink in for a moment. . . . How often do our ideas of provision have more to do with living in such a way that we are independent and self-sufficient as opposed to vulnerable or dependent upon God? (29)

Wueste goes on to say,

God doesn’t leave us to fend for ourselves. We may feel alone but we aren’t. He is leading us somewhere. . . . The journey is about deepening our dependence on him. Why? Because dependence is the promised land. Hear that clearly. A life of dependence is the truest, most real hope in our lives. Our hope is in him, not some location outside of difficulty. (39)

“Literal daily dependence sounds unsettling at best and frightening at worst.”

Wueste’s celebration of dependence may seem startling to you. It was to me. I never thought of dependence as the promised land, that depending on God for everything was my truest hope. My ideal provision is being self-sufficient, with God as a solid backup plan in case my plans go awry. Literal daily dependence sounds unsettling at best and frightening at worst.

Could I Really Trust God?

When I was diagnosed with post-polio syndrome, the doctors said that my body would continue to weaken and perhaps leave me a quadriplegic. That meant a life of complete dependence on others. And when my husband left me several years later, I would often wake up in the middle of the night, terrified. I played out my worst-case scenarios. Who will care for me as my body fails? Will everyone abandon me? What if my physical decline happens faster than I thought? The questions haunted me. Could I fully trust God with all I needed?

The nights were long and lonely, and the long and lingering tail of suffering was wearing me down. Yet I knew that I needed to keep coming back to God, so I poured out my questions and pain to him night after night. I confessed that I felt let down by him. That I wanted more than he was providing. That I longed for certainty more than I longed for his presence.

“God was showing me his extravagant love in countless ways. I just needed to pay attention.”

It was through this honest wrestling that God met me. I realized that though the future felt uncertain to me, it was fully known to him. I no longer felt deserted by God in the wilderness, but instead began to feel his presence more intensely. I noticed signs of his love that I’d once overlooked. He was loving me when I asked for peace, and it flooded over me. He was loving me when I felt depressed, and a friend called unexpectedly. He was loving me when I opened the Bible, and it came alive to me. God was showing me his extravagant love in countless ways. I just needed to pay attention.

Seeing My Suffering Differently

Job knew God before his calamities, but he saw God in the midst of them. He said, “I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you” (Job 42:5). Moses spoke to God face to face in the wilderness, and those conversations literally transformed him. His face was radiant — so radiant that he wore a veil afterward. Everyone knew he’d been talking to God (Exodus 34:29–35). We too are radiant when we look to God in our struggles (Psalm 34:5), and we are transformed as well. This is the stunning outcome of living in the wilderness with God: we know him better, we may see and savor him more deeply, and ultimately we are transformed into his image (2 Corinthians 3:18).

If you’re discouraged in the wilderness, desperate to escape, know that many saints before you have felt that way too. Confess your disappointments to God as you wrestle with him in prayer. Pay attention to signs of God’s love, and keep talking to him. Trust that he is doing a deep work in your life, and ask him to show you his presence and provision.

And when you do, perhaps your perspective will change. Perhaps you’ll discover that dependence truly is the promised land, because God has become even more precious to you.

My desire to pray when I’m suffering can swing wildly in a single day — and sometimes within the hour. Through the severe trials in my life — losing a child, having a debilitating disease, losing my marriage — prayer has been both arduous and exhilarating. Exhausting work and energizing delight.

In relentless suffering, I can struggle with prayer. More accurately, I don’t want to pray. When I haven’t seen any change, it can feel pointless to pray. So, I avoid it. Or I pray mindlessly. As my motivation fades, my heart slowly drifts from God. When that happens, I first need to recognize the battle raging inside me. Only then can I admit my wandering heart and cry out, “Help me to want to pray!” After that, I follow the Puritan admonition: “Pray until you pray.” I pray until I’m truly talking to God again.

Other times, I want to pray, but I just can’t do it. Praying feels impossible when I’m overwhelmed by pain. I’m either too exhausted, too numb, or too desperate to focus, and I can only manage to plead, “Help me.” I don’t know what I need, or even how to articulate what I’m feeling. In those moments, I can rely on the Spirit with his groans too deep for words. God knows what I need, and the Spirit will intercede for me (Romans 8:26–27).

“Life with God, even when everything is falling apart, can be a place of joy and abundance.”

Still other times, my prayer life blossoms in suffering. I see God provide for all my needs. I sense his presence and pour out my heart to him throughout the day. I find that life with God, even when everything is falling apart, can be a place of joy and abundance. Such connection with God in the storm has led to exquisite intimacy, a mystical communion I will never forget, not because my circumstances were good, or even changing for the better, but because God felt near.

At a Loss for Words

There are also times when I want to pray, but words escape me. When I don’t know what to ask or say, I borrow the wisdom of others. Many mornings, my prayer time has begun with quotes I’ve pinned to my bulletin board to realign my heart. For example:

Lord, do thou turn me all into love, all my love into obedience, and let my obedience be without interruption. (Jeremy Taylor)

Lord, please lighten my load or strengthen my back. (Puritan prayer)

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. (The Serenity Prayer)

Everything is needful that he sends; nothing can be needful that he withholds. (John Newton)

“God’s provision doesn’t always mirror my requests, yet his grace unfailingly meets me.”

These words have helped me focus as I add to them my own petitions. I might ask for rescue from my trials, wisdom for my decisions, strength for the day ahead. God’s provision doesn’t always mirror my requests, yet his grace unfailingly meets me. When I ask for a changed situation, I often receive a changed heart. When I ask for wisdom, I often have to proceed without clarity. When I ask for strength, I often still feel weak and uncertain. I have had to move forward in faith, trusting that God will provide what I need. Yet it is trusting God with the unknown, not leaning on my own understanding or even knowing where I am going, that has anchored my faith in him.

T.R.U.S.T.

Besides our pressing needs, what else might we pray for in suffering? The acronym T.R.U.S.T. encapsulates what I need in suffering — what we all need — but often neglect to ask for:

Turn me from temptation.
Revive me through your word.
Use this pain for good.
Show me your glory.
Teach me your ways.

Turn me from temptation (Luke 22:40; Luke 11:4).

Jesus encouraged his disciples to pray that they wouldn’t give in to temptation. Heeding his words means praying before we are tempted, which requires that we know what might derail us so we can be on the lookout for it. While each person’s struggle is unique, in suffering I’ve been tempted to

stop talking to God and subtly move away from him,
want certainty more than I want Jesus,
harbor bitterness toward those around me, even God, and
run from pain rather than staying dependent on God in it.

Revive me through your word (Psalm 119:25).

God has restored me countless times through Scripture. I’ve come to the Bible feeling hopeless and weary, unsure of how I can even make it through the day, and he has revived me through it. God has spoken directly to me through his word, giving me exactly what I’ve needed: reassurance when I’m doubting, comfort when I’m crying, peace when I’m panicking.

But first, I need to open the Bible, which in suffering can feel uniquely challenging. I often resist it at first, as I imagine it will taste like cardboard. So I pray for motivation to read, and then I specifically ask God to give me spiritual eyes to see his truth in it (Psalm 119:18). And then, miraculously, the words become sweet (Psalm 19:10).

Use this pain for good (Genesis 50:20; Romans 8:28).

Knowing that my pain has a purpose makes it easier to endure. Even when I can’t understand how God could use it for good, I can be confident that he will. I know that God will never allow me to suffer needlessly, and that he has precisely measured out my trials so that not a single drop of my suffering will be wasted. While these truths are unchanging, my prayer is to glimpse what God is doing through my suffering. I’ve seen God use my pain to draw me closer to him, to comfort others with the comfort I’ve received, to increase my endurance and faith, and more.

Show me your glory (Exodus 33:18–19; 34:6).

Seeing God’s glory means seeing, with the eyes of faith, his indescribable beauty and his invisible attributes. His love and faithfulness. His goodness and compassion. His mercy and grace.

When I ask God to show me his glory, part of that request is to see and experience his love. I don’t want to know just intellectually that he loves me; I want to experience and sense his love in my daily life. God demonstrates his love in myriad ways — this prayer is asking him for spiritual sight to see them.

Finally, when we see God’s glory, we know that he is with us. His presence is unmistakable. And that awareness is our greatest need in suffering.

Teach me your ways (Exodus 33:13; Psalm 25:4–5).

We don’t know the ways of God. His thoughts are so much higher than ours, and nothing can compare to his wisdom. Our perspective is partial and imperfect, while God’s view is unlimited and eternal. So when we ask God to teach us his ways, we’re acknowledging that we don’t know what’s best for us and are relying on the one who does. He alone can prepare us for what lies ahead. We need wisdom for our decisions and direction. Do we act now, or should we wait? Do we need courage or patient acceptance? Do we need lighter loads or stronger backs?

The work of prayer aligns our hearts with God and teaches us to trust him for all our needs. In prayer, we ask God to open our eyes to the realities before us — his presence in our lives, his provision for all our needs, and his purposes in our pain. Our deepest need is to find our rest and fulfillment in God alone, and suffering offers a unique opportunity to do that. And when we do, we learn that God really is enough, and that a life of dependence is a life of unending grace.

“Would you please, please come with me? I really want you to be there. All the other moms are going.”

My daughter was pleading with me to volunteer at field day for her kindergarten class. How could I deny such an earnest request? But since I couldn’t navigate the outdoors without assistance, I had to say no once again. She nodded her head understandingly when I explained why — she was used to disappointment. She didn’t know how much I wanted to go, how I longed to connect with her at school, or how guilty I felt that she was missing out.

Before I had children, my disability primarily impacted me. I could choose what I wanted to do, and I taught myself to want only those activities that were physically possible for me. But after I had children, I was faced with more challenging responsibilities and requests, constant reminders of what I couldn’t do. I felt guilty and responsible for what my girls lacked due to my limitations.

Over the years, I’ve met other parents who also feel inadequate — financial constraints, lack of education, limited resources, one all-consuming child, their own emotional battles, familial dysfunction, or a whole litany of other struggles. Like me, they were convinced that their inabilities put their children at a disadvantage.

“God, in his infinite wisdom, has chosen us to be the parents of our children.”

Yet God, in his infinite wisdom, has chosen us to be the parents of our children.

Dependence Can Be a Strength

In my frailty, I rely more on God. I need his power and wisdom because I don’t have power and wisdom in myself. And I have discovered that since “the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men” (1 Corinthians 1:25), I have unimaginable resources at my disposal.

When I ask for wisdom, God generously gives it. When I wait on the Lord, he renews my strength. When I am weary and troubled, he gives me rest. When I turn to God, he gives me everything I need.

My dependence and limitations have become my greatest strengths because they push me to pray before I answer or act. When I could easily do what my children asked, I didn’t seek God’s wisdom or help. I just responded. I didn’t consider alternatives or potential pitfalls. I assumed I had it under control.

The Israelites were once deceived by their Gibeonite neighbors, who claimed to have come from a far-off land and presented torn sacks, dried-out provisions, and worn-out clothes as proof. The Israelites “did not ask counsel from the Lord” (Joshua 9:14) because it seemed obvious what to do. I can relate to their actions, as I look back at the impulsive decisions I made without giving them much thought. Decisions I often regretted later. But when my children asked me for things that were beyond my abilities, I had to ask God for wisdom and help. Just as Jehoshaphat did when he said to the Lord, “We are powerless against this great horde that is coming against us. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you” (2 Chronicles 20:12).

Weakness Made Me a Better Mom

In my weakness, I begged God for tangible, specific help and saw concrete answers to prayer. The more I asked, the more God answered. The more I needed, the more he provided. The more I sought God, the more easily I found him. I would have missed out on untold blessings had I not been so needy.

My physical condition involves increasing pain and weakness, so I daily crawled to Jesus weary and heavy laden, and he gave me rest. I had to let go of my desire to do things perfectly, to meet everyone else’s needs, to wear myself out to the point of exhaustion. I had once been Martha, pulled apart by much serving, but my disability forced me into the role of Mary (Luke 10:38–42). Yet it was only then that I discovered the richness of sitting at Jesus’s feet, trusting him with all that felt undone.

God used my weakness to make me a better mother, and to forge a deeper character in my children.

When faced with something I couldn’t do, I sometimes wondered if my daughters would have been better off in a different family. But God reassured me that I was handpicked by him to address their unique strengths and struggles. Christ equips and strengthens us for everything our children need (Philippians 4:13, 19), so we need not feel inadequate.

What God Did Through Weakness

While I’d been consumed with what I couldn’t do for my children, I almost missed what God was doing in them because of my weakness. Now I see they are both creative problem-solvers. They show up for people and keep their commitments.

They are also compassionate and caring, noticing what people need and looking out for people with differing abilities. Even as small children, they never stared or asked strangers, “What’s wrong with you?” Once, when my older daughter’s first-grade teacher dropped her papers in class, Katie immediately jumped up from her seat across the room to pick them up. None of the other students even attempted to get up. When the teacher recounted the story, I realized that God was shaping my daughters through my disability in ways I hadn’t even noticed.

My younger daughter saw the blessing of crying out to God one rainy night when I was driving her to her basketball game in a neighboring town. In the stop-and-go traffic, my leg began to give out, and there was no way to get off the road. Tears rolled down my cheeks — I felt inadequate, scared, and overwhelmed yet again.

“Our weakness could be the making of our children’s faith. They learn to rely on God for the things we cannot do.”

When Kristi realized what was happening, she immediately said aloud, “God, please make my mom’s leg feel stronger and the traffic clear up.” We took turns praying back and forth together. Within minutes, we stopped seeing red brake lights, and the cramping in my leg eased as we made it to the game just in time. On the way home, she commented on how God answered our prayers.

Our Cracks Help Them See

Our weaknesses could be the making of our children’s faith. They learn to rely on God for the things we cannot do. They watch us pray. They see our limitations. And they get a front-row seat to see how God provides. As they watch our weak and flawed earthen vessels up close, they see the surpassing power that belongs to God and not to us (2 Corinthians 4:7). In this way, our cracks help them see.

Parenting through weakness can bring God glory. As we rely on God and his grace, he shines through our lives. God’s grace is sufficient for us, and his power is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9). What more could we want?

While I often shrink back when I think about future suffering, pain has consistently pulled me into the heart of Christ, an unforgettable place of mystery and wonder. As I share in Christ’s suffering, I find an unusual closeness to Jesus that offers a rare glimpse of his glory.

The apostle Paul talks about sharing in Christ’s sufferings, wanting to know him and the power of his resurrection (Philippians 3:10). That is, to know by experience, to know personally and intimately, not merely intellectually. Suffering brings an intimacy with God, a mysterious and sacred fellowship that cannot be captured in words.

Somehow, suffering can transport us into the throne room of God, where we feel the tenderness of his embrace, an otherworldly sense of joy, and a fellowship unlike anything else we’ve ever known. For a moment, an awareness of his presence can so completely envelop and overshadow our pain that we become immersed in fellowship with Jesus, unaware of anything around us. Knowing Christ this way has changed me. It’s impossible to forget that closeness, even after the suffering has passed. It has marked me.

“Suffering brings an intimacy with God, a mysterious and sacred fellowship that cannot be captured in words.”

Admittedly, I still don’t welcome the suffering that draws me that close, often preferring to know about Christ’s sufferings intellectually rather than through experience. Even in the midst of it, I’m begging for relief, wanting the pain to go away. But as I submit to him through suffering, something shifts in me. My heart becomes more aligned with his. My union with Christ, a reality for every believer, melts into sweet communion in my pain.

Meeting Christ in Suffering

Jesus fully understands me, but I can understand only the mere edges of him. Yet as I identify with his suffering and yield more fully to him in my sorrow, I possess more of him.

Whatever you are dealing with, you can find your suffering in Christ’s. He knows what it’s like to hunger and thirst, to endure sleepless nights and exhausting days, to experience agonizing pain, and to pour himself out for others who are hostile in return. His cousin was murdered, his family misunderstood him, his hometown rejected him, and he watched as a sword pierced his mother’s soul. People used Jesus, flattered him, criticized him, lied about him, betrayed him, abandoned him, mocked him, humiliated him, whipped him, and watched him die an excruciating death.

So where can you identify with him in your suffering? If you have ever been betrayed by a friend, someone you loved and trusted, you can know a little of Christ’s fellowship in suffering. Or if you have ever begged God to remove your anguish, and God denied your desperate request, you can know a little of Christ’s fellowship in suffering. Or if you have experienced tormenting, all-consuming physical pain with no relief, you can know a little of Christ’s fellowship in suffering.

There is no suffering we can experience that our Lord cannot relate to. And as we experience a portion of what he did and yield to him in it, we find a precious intimacy with him.

When the Worst Pain Comes

Joni Eareckson Tada understands this sacred experience, as she lives with crushing pain on top of her quadriplegia. In her latest inspiring book, Songs of Suffering, she tells of a friend who has become my friend as well. Barbara Brand, who has MS and brain lesions that cause excruciating pain in her head, gets regular injections into her skull and neck (about forty at a time) just to relieve the uncontrollable pain and nausea. Barbara, who is mostly bedridden, says of these injections,

Whenever the needles sink deep into my head, the extreme pain brings into sharp focus Jesus and his crown of thorns. The image calms my heart, but best of all, it binds me to his love. I picture my Savior yielding to the spike-like barbs, wholly embracing his own suffering to rescue me. So when needles plunge into my skull, my heart is cheered knowing that he is beckoning me into a deeper sanctum of sharing in his sufferings. Wonder of wonders, in some small measure, lowly me gets to identify with and enter his grief. The Bible tells me to be an imitator of God, so I get to imitate Jesus and his glad willingness to submit to the Father’s s terrible, yet wonderful, will. It’s the only way I can, through Christ, do everything. Even these awful injections. (115)

“As I submit to him through suffering, something shifts in me. My heart becomes more aligned with his.”

This is sharing in the fellowship of Christ’s sufferings. We want to know that Jesus understands our suffering, which he does, but there is an even deeper fellowship when we understand a little of his. And when we can, like Barbara, imitate Jesus and his glad willingness to submit to God, we experience a profound kinship with him.

Not Only in Suffering

As we share in Christ’s sufferings, we also share in his comfort (2 Corinthians 1:5), not a thin set of platitudes that make us feel better in the moment, but an explicable fellowship that carries a sturdy peace. The weightier the suffering, the greater the comfort, the richer the fellowship, and ultimately the deeper the joy. And that joy will only increase when his glory is revealed (1 Peter 4:13).

Furthermore, the more we share in Jesus’s sufferings, the more we understand the power of his resurrection, and the more we can see his glory. Suffering can open our eyes to God’s glory — we see and experience it rather than learn what glory means intellectually. And as we behold God’s glory, we are being changed into his image (2 Corinthians 3:18), becoming more like him. Even more mysteriously and astonishingly, sharing in Christ’s sufferings means we will one day share in his glory, a glory that will make today’s sorrows seem light and momentary (Romans 8:17–18; 2 Corinthians 4:17).

If you are in a season of deep pain and loss, you have a particular opportunity to know the Lord Jesus more deeply. To know him by experience and not just academically. While we can know more about Jesus through Bible study, small groups, books, and sermons, some of the richest dimensions of our relationship with him will be forged through suffering. That relationship bound through sorrow offers not only comfort and communion, but also a glimpse of glory that will transform our faith, make us more like him, and prepare us for the unspeakable glories that await in eternity.

Suffering is largely a mystery to me.

While God’s grace and presence have been unimaginably rich in my pain, I still don’t understand why particular believers who love God endure loss after loss until they feel hopeless and confused, covered in darkness. I don’t understand why people who have not strayed from God’s path, but are looking to him in all things, feel defeated and dragged into the dust. I don’t understand why God’s people, whom he treasures and protects, are led like sheep to the slaughter.

And I’m not alone in my bewilderment. The Bible reiterates that the reasons for suffering can be mysterious and confusing, and from our vantage, incomprehensible. In the opening scene of the book of Job, for instance, we are taken into heaven and are witnesses to a dialogue between Satan and God. We realize from their interchange that there is much more happening in suffering than any of us can see, for sure in Job’s life but also in ours (Ephesians 6:12). God has his purposes, which are for both our good and his glory, though we may not understand them until heaven. Until then, we live with a seeming paradox: that God is both sovereign and good and yet his people can still suffer unthinkable loss, even when they are faithfully trusting him.

Psalm 44 reflects on a similar tension. We don’t know the circumstances surrounding its writing, but we do know that the Israelites felt abandoned by God. The psalmist speaks directly to God about their baffling pain in the face of his unparalleled power and past deliverance. He boldly cries out to God, pouring out his questions and doubts, trusting God enough to honestly come before him. It’s a psalm for those who trust God but have more questions than answers in suffering.

Not by Our Own Arm

The psalm begins with praise, acknowledging God’s goodness and faithfulness to his people in days of old. In verses 1–8, the psalmist declares that their ancestors flourished and defeated their enemies not because of their skill, but because of God’s intervention. God delighted in Israel and put their enemies to shame, and his people praised his name. It was all God’s doing, as verse 3 says:

Not by their own sword did they win the land, nor did their own arm save them, but your right hand and your arm, and the light of your face, for you delighted in them.

Then the psalmist reiterates his present faithfulness to God. He doesn’t trust in his own resources, in his sword and bow, but it is only through God that they can be victorious. And they will boast in God and give thanks to him forever.

But then the psalm takes a turn. In verses 9–16, the psalmist says that God was the one who had engineered their subsequent disgrace and defeat:

You have rejected us and disgraced us. . . . You have made us turn back from our foes. . . . You have made us like sheep for slaughter. . . . You have made us the taunt of our neighbors . . . a laughingstock among the peoples.

The Israelites recognized that their suffering came directly from God. They did not understand why it happened, but they knew where it came from. They understood that God forms light and creates darkness; he makes well-being and creates calamity (Isaiah 45:7). He acts and no one can turn it back.

Like Sheep to Be Slaughtered

In verses 17–22, the psalmist maintains that God’s actions were not because the Israelites had sinned. They had not forgotten God or worshiped idols or willfully disobeyed him, but rather were faithful and true to God’s covenant. Their hearts had not turned back, nor had their feet strayed from the path. And yet God still broke them.

Verse 22 is a final word defending their innocence and obedience: “Yet for your sake we are killed all the day long; we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.” In other words, “We are trusting you, Lord, and we are dying for you. Rather than rescuing us, you are behind our earthly destruction.” That may be the cry of martyrs around the world today, who are proclaiming God’s love while being led to their death. And it may be the lament of faithful Christians who are struggling with terminal cancer, unending pain, and precipitous loss. Our lives are in God’s hands, and we are being crushed.

“God can never forget his people, for they are carved on the palms of his hands.”

This feels shocking. That God would willingly lead us as sheep to be slaughtered when we are faithfully serving him can make us wonder if he cares about us at all. Which makes it even more surprising that Paul would quote this verse in Romans 8:36, as an example of how we can never be separated from God’s love. The implication is that when we are at our lowest — feeling abandoned by God and growing increasingly hopeless — God is actually lavishing his love on us. He is making us more than conquerors in the place where we’ve been tasting bitter defeat and can’t sense his presence.

While we associate the times of abundance and success with God’s favor, Paul is reminding us that God’s love is as strong as ever when we are facing despair and even death. The psalmist mourned that God had rejected and crushed them, implying that God was against them, but Paul reframes that perspective for Christians, asserting that even in our darkest moments — especially in our darkest moments? — God is working for our good.

Who Can Be Against Us?

Paul’s direct reference to Psalm 44 demonstrates that when we feel God doesn’t care and is indifferent to the plight of the faithful, we’re dead wrong. God couldn’t be more for us.

The quote is sandwiched between Paul’s stunning declaration that, “If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?” (Romans 8:31–32), and his magnificent proclamation that we are more than conquerors through him who loved us because nothing in all creation can separate us from God’s love (Romans 8:37–39).

We may live with lingering questions about our suffering. Many questions may go unanswered, particularly the haunting question of Why? We can trust that God has reasons (perhaps ten thousand reasons), although we may not see or understand many of them in this life. But the overarching reason lies in the glorious truth of Romans 8:31–39. While we may see only in part now, we can trust that all that God does is out of his incomparable and unfathomable love for us.

Our Great Hope in the Valley

The psalmist concludes by directly asking God for help, saying, “Awake! Why are you sleeping, O Lord? Rouse yourself!” (Psalm 44:23). When Jesus was asleep in a boat amidst a perilous storm, the disciples wondered if he cared about them. After Jesus calmed the storm, he asked them why they’d been afraid (Mark 4:35–41). Jesus knew exactly what was happening. But like the disciples, when God isn’t acting, we may wonder if he doesn’t know or doesn’t care, both of which are impossible.

“When God isn’t acting, we may wonder if he doesn’t know or doesn’t care, both of which are impossible.”

The psalmist then exclaims, “Why do you hide your face? Why do you forget our affliction and oppression?” (Psalm 44:24). Those are the questions we ask God. Why can’t we see his face? Why isn’t he doing anything about what is happening? We can feel the agony of the psalmist on behalf of those who feel abandoned, lying prostrate in the dust. Yet the reassuring truth is that God can never forget his people, for they are carved on the palms of his hands (Isaiah 49:16).

Psalm 44 closes with this plea: “Rise up; come to our help! Redeem us for the sake of your steadfast love!” (Psalm 44:26). He is appealing to God for rescue, not based on their own faithfulness, but on the character of God and his unfailing love. As we see in Romans 8, it all comes back to God’s love.

This psalm is a beautiful lament for those of us who wonder where God is in our suffering. God is the one who has helped us in the past, and God is the one who is letting us suffer now. Yet as Paul weaves Psalm 44:22 into Romans 8, we see that God is pouring out his love for us even as we are being led as sheep to the slaughter. God bids us to cry out to him, voicing our questions and detailing our anguish, while trusting in his steadfast love — even, and perhaps especially, in the face of suffering that doesn’t make sense.