Waiting for the Lord.Hoping in his word.Watching for the morning.

Those phrases from Psalm 130 still bring me to tears. They describe how I lived for years, after my once-comfortable life dissolved in front of me. I waited, hoped, and watched for life to be good again.

I wanted the wait to be over quickly so my life could return to normal and I could move on. But those years taught me that in God’s hands, waiting is not a meaningless pause, an empty space to be rushed past. No, waiting has a purpose, much deeper and more refining than I ever would have imagined.

Songs That Taught Me Stillness

The psalms showed me how to wait. In my desperate longing, I read them over and over and over again. They gave me words when I had none. They gave me hope when hope was gone. They taught my heart how to trust God even in my darkest hours.

The psalms named the ache in my waiting and gave me words I could offer to God. Through the psalms, I learned that waiting is a holy exercise, one that requires my full attention. I learned stillness and silence, hope, patience, and trust.

Stillness (Psalm 37:7) and silence (Psalm 62:5) let me hear from God, without the noise of technology and the chatter of people vying for my attention. God’s still small voice spoke to my inner being when I intentionally stopped and listened. I wanted to be busy while I waited, to distract myself from the pain of the present empty moment and my overwhelming longings, but God invited me to bring those longings to him instead. Instead of busyness, I found my rest in him. Instead of distraction, my eyes and ears fixed on him.

Waiting patiently for the Lord (Psalm 40:1) is a common theme in the psalms. In those years of waiting, I was often impatient, ready to move on and move past my pain. If impatience is being discontent with the present moment, then patience is embracing the present and letting God meet me in it. I can enter into a holy experience with God in the deepest pain as I breathe in and out his presence. When all I had to hold onto was his presence and his promises, I discovered that he was and is more than enough.

God Works in Our Waiting

The psalms also showed me what God was doing in my waiting. They pointed me to the goodness and grace of God as the psalmists put their hope in him even when everything was falling apart. Sometimes I’ve received what I was waiting for, and the psalms have taught me to look back with gratitude for God’s kindness. Other times, God has not given me what I asked for, and the psalms have taught me to be equally, if not more, grateful for how God met me and transformed me.

At times, I have mistakenly assumed that nothing is happening in my waiting. Yet God works in our waiting, answering both spoken and unspoken requests, molding us into his likeness. He is preparing us for his work and teaching us his ways.

“God works in our waiting, answering both spoken and unspoken requests, molding us into his likeness.”

In our waiting, God is growing our roots. I once transplanted a beloved camellia bush only to put it in a spot with too much sun. It was quickly scorched by the heat of summer. I cut the bare twigs down in the fall, convinced the plant was dead. But over the winter, its roots expanded; what we thought was dead was teeming with life about to emerge. In the spring, green leaves sprouted at the base and our bush came back to life.

That’s a picture of what happens in our waiting. Life looks dormant on the surface, but God is strengthening and expanding our root system to tap into his streams of living water. When we turn to God, we become stronger and more confident in God because of our wait.

More Than the Morning

Finally, the psalms taught me what I was waiting for. I was not waiting for a particular outcome, though I initially thought so. I was waiting for God himself. At first, I was waiting for clarity or direction, the answer to my questions and an outcome for which I had long prayed. But just as Job discovered, the answers to my deepest questions were found in the person and character of God himself.

While we wait, we are not just biding our time, hoping that life will eventually change. We’re putting our hope in the one who will never disappoint. We wait for the Lord, hope in his word, and watch for the morning.

I learned so much about God through seemingly endless dark years as I watched for the morning. Psalm 30:5 says, “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning,” but my weeping lasted more than a night, more than a thousand nights, before I saw the night slowly give way to dawn.

At first, all I wanted were glimmers of light indicating my prayers were answered and the wait was over. I was waiting for the outcome I wanted, or at least for an indication of where life was headed. Was life going to get better, or would it continue to deteriorate? Would I get what I’d earnestly prayed for, or would God’s answer be no? I wanted to know which outcome to put my hope in.

That’s when I learned that my hope wasn’t in an outcome. It was in God alone. I needed to trust in the goodness of God and lean into him as I waited. I wasn’t watching and waiting for the morning; I was watching and waiting for God.

As Surely as the Dawn

That realization brought profound change in me. The night was still pitch black as I learned to wait for God more watchfully, more attentively, more expectantly than watchmen wait for the morning (Psalm 130:6). Before sunrise, watchmen see shadows dimly in the receding darkness that become clearer and clearer as the night turns into day. They are looking closely, attentive to the details. And they have no doubt about the outcome.

“Can we wait for God and be satisfied in him alone without insisting on the outcome we want?”

All the psalms echo this earth-shifting revelation. We are waiting for the Lord. For God alone, our soul waits in silence. We wait patiently for the Lord. What we wait for is certain. As Hosea 6:3 says, “Let us know; let us press on to know the Lord; his going out is sure as the dawn; he will come to us as the showers, as the spring rains that water the earth.”

So as we wait, we can ask ourselves:

Can we be still and know that he is God when everything in us wants to fix the situation?
Can we embrace the present moment, with its suffering and sorrow, its pain and imperfections, or are we just waiting for our problems to disappear?
Can we live with uncertainty, trusting that God is doing something in what appears to be an empty silence?
Can we wait for God and be satisfied in him alone without insisting on the outcome we want?

The psalms are songs of hope. Not hope that our situation will change immediately or even in this life. But hope in the God who makes all things new, who cares fiercely and tenderly for us, and has all of eternity to show us what he did in our waiting. Our hope will never disappoint because it is not in an outcome but in the living God. Our hope is in him (Psalm 39:7) and from him (Psalm 62:5), and we wait patiently for him (Psalm 37:7), more than watchmen wait for the morning.

He will always come to us. As surely as the dawn.

One of my dearest friends lost both parents to suicide. Her father died when she was a teenager, and her mother passed away more recently. I was stunned and speechless when she told me about her mother’s death. How does anyone endure that kind of loss?

I was sure my words would be inadequate and unhelpful, yet my friend kept calling, asking my advice, letting me minister to her. She humbly shared both her pain and her struggles. She confessed her anger at her siblings’ callous response and asked me to pray for her. When she told me that our conversations had helped her, I was convicted by how rarely I let people into my pain. I had often assumed that if they hadn’t experienced what I had, they wouldn’t be able to understand it.

Rather than inviting others into my pain and grief, I’ve often pushed them away. I’ve felt a vague sense of self-righteousness, confident that no one could speak into my life except God himself. I’ve dismissed others’ experiences, even the comfort of friends, because they couldn’t fully relate to my suffering.

Temptation to Isolate

Right before my son’s death, my husband and I had worked through a significant marital struggle that intertwined with my grief. Messy and muddled, there were parts of my pain I felt I couldn’t share with others, so I was sure that no one could know how I felt. I withdrew from fellowship, hesitant to share deeply with others — it felt too vulnerable to be that exposed. Besides, I looked stronger and more spiritual when I didn’t let people in.

My attitude unknowingly intensified my pain, cutting off an important means of God’s grace and rescue: his people. My grief isolated me, ushering me into a silent silo in which I felt compelled (or perhaps entitled) to deal with my struggle alone. I said I was tired of hearing platitudes, but in truth, I was tired of hearing anything. I had closed everyone off, and no one dared to enter in.

This temptation to isolate, to pull away from community, assuming no one can help, is common in suffering. So how do we fight this temptation to pride — to believing that no one understands us and therefore no one can help us?

Pain and Loss and Sin

As someone who has dealt with layers of losses, I have seen this temptation to pride and isolation more than once. Pain, like sin, has a way of hardening my heart and blinding me to my real need.

When I was a single parent dealing with a significant physical disability, I was less concerned about being rescued from my sin than I was about being commended for my faith. In fact, I saw myself as a righteous victim in anything related to my suffering. Yet even those commended by God for their righteousness were not sinless, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God (Romans 3:23). For instance, while Job was a righteous man, his suffering humbled him, and he repented in dust and ashes for pridefully speaking of what he did not know (Job 42:5–6).

I hadn’t fully considered my own sin as it related to my suffering until I heard Joni Eareckson Tada share about how pain and loss had sanctified her. She was paralyzed in a diving accident at age 17 and often spoke about how God changed her, transforming her once-sour and peevish disposition as she submitted daily to Jesus. Most of us would expect, or at least excuse, a quadriplegic with an irritable attitude, but Joni was determined to let God use her disability to refine her character. She writes in Lost and Found,

I felt ashamed of my root of bitterness and my spirit of complaining. I don’t want to be like that, God, I prayed. If I was to find myself, I needed to get rid of those sins and more. (28)

My Greatest Problem

I have come to see, like Joni, that regardless of what I’m suffering, my greatest problem on earth is my sin. When Jesus healed the paralytic, he first forgave his sins because, like us, he needed a much greater healing than a restored physical condition (Luke 5:17–26). Our deepest need is to be right with God, to be rescued from our sin — and suffering can help us see that. Suffering often exposes our sin for what it is, showing us our need for God’s grace.

I often journal in the morning, reflecting on the previous day and my reactions. As I write, I can see patterns — I’m often recounting how people have annoyed me or hurt me while overlooking my ungracious responses.

“Satan wants us to feel alone and self-righteous in our pain.”

One morning, I’d been writing furiously about how misunderstood I felt when I read, “Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful” (1 Corinthians 13:4–5). I sat there, convicted, as I realized these words were directly applicable to me. I had been impatient, unkind, irritable, and altogether unloving when people were trying to help me.

One of the cruelest things Satan does in our suffering is persuading us that we don’t need to be rescued from sin, but rather to be understood, revered, and left alone.

When One Member Suffers

Satan is prowling around, seeking to devour us (1 Peter 5:8). And he loves to use suffering, convincing us that grief excuses our uncharitable responses. That we can’t be sanctified through our pain. That other people can’t and won’t understand us.

So, we lock the doors when people knock. We erect walls that proclaim our self-sufficiency. We tell everyone we want to be left alone. Few are brave enough to keep knocking at the door or calling over the wall. They may feel more and more inadequate to minister to us, afraid that they’ll say something foolish or worried about how we’ll respond. So they stay away, not wanting to offend or presume — and we cut ourselves off from the means of grace that God offers in community.

“How do we receive the grace of community? We need to let people in. More than that, we need to invite people in.”

How do we receive the grace of community? We need to let people in. More than that, we need to invite people in, offering grace when they are awkward and unsure, expecting they won’t meet all our needs, and assuming they may misunderstand us. We have been called to be the body of Christ, which means that each part has its own role to play. We don’t expect a knee to have the same perspective or experiences as an eye, but we expect every part to work together. Our brothers and sisters may not have had the same experiences as we have, but we trust that Jesus will minister encouragement to us through them in some unique and meaningful way.

Comfort for Any Affliction

We know that God alone provides for our needs and perfectly understands us. He walks with us through the darkest valley (Psalm 23:4), sees all our tossings and tears (Psalm 56:8), and knows everything we think and say (Psalm 139:1–4). We can trust him as we move toward the community he has called us to.

Certainly, those who have been through similar losses to ours may have uniquely comforting insight and experience to share, but other believers can minister to us as well. Those who have been comforted by God in their affliction can comfort other believers in “any affliction” with the comfort they have received from God (2 Corinthians 1:3–4). Any affliction implies that if we have ever received God’s comfort in suffering, we can use that experience to comfort others, since God is the source of true comfort. The Lord gives wisdom to those who ask for it (James 1:5), often in the moment (Matthew 10:19), so even those without a shared experience of loss can speak words given by the Spirit. And these Spirit-shaped words carry the deepest, most lasting comfort of all.

In suffering, we tend to draw inward and isolate to protect ourselves from further pain. Satan preys on that instinct, convincing us that we don’t need anyone else, and that others will only add to our grief, rather than easing it. He wants us to feel alone and self-righteous in our pain. Yet as we lean into God and his people, the Lord can transform us into humble servants, sanctified and shaped by our suffering.

“You are not alone.”

Just hearing those words when we’re in pain can cause a subtle shift within us, moving us toward hope where we had seen only despair. Suffering can be one of the loneliest experiences, separating us from people we love and, at times, from a sense of God’s nearness. We long for presence — both the presence of God, who draws near in our pain, and the presence of others who can minister his grace. Yet sometimes it’s hard to find or experience either.

Sunday After He Left

Though I’d been part of the local church for decades, I didn’t want to go to church the Sunday after my husband left. I was convinced it would be painful and awkward. Most people didn’t know what had happened, and I wasn’t sure what I would say. Afraid that I’d break down in tears, I wanted to pull the covers over my head and not face anyone. Nothing felt safe. But after wrestling in bed, I finally got up and drove to church with my daughters, praying that God would meet us there.

Some friends were waiting for us in the back. They had saved seats for us. I was relieved we wouldn’t be sitting alone. As we stood for the first hymn and began to hear our voices harmonize with those around us, I felt a strange swell of emotion. We were part of a community, and even though our world had collapsed, there were people around us who would hold us up. I still remember leaving encouraged that day, thankful that I had been worshiping in God’s house, hearing God’s word, surrounded by God’s people.

I couldn’t have known when I walked through the doors that Sunday how much I would rely on those people in the coming years.

With Me in the Fire

It was in the church where I felt nurtured and known. Hearing God’s word preached every Sunday grounded me, reminding me of the truths I needed as anchors. I remember a particular sermon on the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in Daniel 3. My pastor pointed out, vividly and memorably, that God is with us in the fire. He emphasized our witness in trials and how people can see our faithfulness and God’s sufficiency in our weaknesses. I needed to hear, again and again throughout Scripture, that God will never leave or forsake us.

In those long, hard days, I also heard truth from friends and people in my small group who individually encouraged me, prayed with me, and wept with me as they pointed me to Jesus. It was through their faithfulness that I experienced firsthand the church as the body of Christ, redeemed people who love, serve, and sacrifice for each other. Their love came in many forms — providing for our practical needs, sharing testimonies of how God had met them in their own grief, and reminding me of truth when I was tempted to doubt.

“When I wondered how I could go on, the church carried me, reassuring me that I was not alone.”

The response from our church was overwhelming — people fixed our computers, brought our family meals, and even changed light bulbs in our house. Families invited us to dinner, reminding us that we were part of a larger community that was going to support us. Several times, a small group gathered in my home to pray, lamenting with me through a psalm and crying out for God to fill our physical, emotional, and spiritual needs.

When I wondered how I could go on, the church carried me, reassuring me that I was not alone.

What If the Church Hurt Us?

Though I was nurtured and loved by my local church, I do know others who have been hurt by fellow Christians in the wake of suffering, feeling unknown and uncared for in their pain. For some, members of the church showed up right away, but then the support quickly evaporated and they were left to grieve on their own. Others have felt judged or minimized as people have sought to fix them rather than mourn with them. They have left the church disillusioned, discouraged, and disappointed. Their experience in church has seemed to only intensify their loneliness, rather than lessen it.

So how do suffering people move forward when we have been let down by the church? While everyone’s situation is unique, and there is no universal answer, God has chosen the church as the place where his children heal, serve, and grow. In his manifold wisdom, God makes himself known through the church (Ephesians 3:10). The church is the body of Christ, his hands and feet in the world. When one member suffers, all suffer together (1 Corinthians 12:26).

“The church is one of God’s greatest means of grace in our lives, and all the more so in suffering.”

When we already feel weak and wounded, it takes courage to tell others, especially in the church, how they have hurt us. As we bravely move forward, we can pray that God would direct us, help us overlook or forgive when appropriate, and give us wisdom on what actions to take next. In some circumstances, we may deem it wise to leave our local church and look for another, but God will never call us to leave the church altogether. It is one of his greatest means of grace in our lives, and all the more so in suffering.

Do We Really Need Church?

The inevitable questions arise: Why do we need the local church in suffering? Why is it worth finding one where we can belong and trust? Why can’t we just do this on our own?

We need the local church in our suffering because, without it, we might become hardened by the deceitfulness of sin (Hebrews 3:13). When our suffering lingers, and our prayers seemingly go unanswered, we may begin to wonder if God cares — if he can really be trusted. Our fears may feel greater than our faith. When that happens, we can lean into the faith of the saints around us and let them carry us (Hebrews 10:24–25). We can entrust them to pray for us when we have no words ourselves. And we can rest knowing that even if we stumble and fall, someone will be there to pick us up and help us find our strength in God.

In his book Embodied Hope, Kelly Kapic reminds us, “The saints speak to God for us when we struggle to believe and speak alone. Further, the saints are called to speak to us for God when we seem unable to hear him on our own. Their prayers sustain our faith; their proclamation reignites our hope.”

When We Hide Our Pain

As we share our suffering with those in the church, we not only allow them to minister hope to us, but we also minister to them through our pain.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. (2 Corinthians 1:3–4)

When we hide our wounds and weaknesses, we not only distance ourselves from others, but we also subtly reinforce the lie that the Christian life promises continuous victory, pain-free bodies, and material prosperity. Letting our brothers and sisters in Christ into that sacred space of our suffering, sharing our failures and weakness, our pain and our despair, brings a rare closeness that reminds us all that we are not alone.

Suffering can be one of the loneliest experiences, making us feel estranged and isolated from our friends, from our community, and from God. Yet paradoxically, as we let the church minister to us in our pain, leaning into God and into our friends, letting them carry us when we are weak, we often will find a deeper intimacy than we have ever known. God himself whispers to us, through Scripture and through fellow believers, that we are beloved, seen, and known, even in the valley.

When you live in constant pain, or struggle with chronic illness, discouragement is just part of daily life.

The simplest tasks can be exhausting. You consistently worry that you’re becoming a burden. Pain often leads to intermittent sleep, so you rarely feel rested. It’s hard to stay upbeat and cheerful. Since chronic conditions persist for a long time, or are constantly recurring, you depend on friends to encourage and support you — and then to keep encouraging and supporting you over extended periods of time.

I’ve lived with post-polio syndrome for nearly twenty years now, and I’ve also tried to care for others with chronic health issues for decades, so I’ve learned from both sides what’s helpful, sustainable, and frequently overlooked. It’s a long and difficult road for everyone involved, and each situation is unique, but here are some lessons about what to do, what to say, and how to pray for our friends who are hurting.

1. Keep checking in, even when others have stopped.

In my experience, one of the most helpful ways to serve our hurting friends is to check in regularly to see how they’re doing.

People with chronic pain and illness often feel alone and forgotten, especially if their condition leaves them homebound. Friends may rush to help when symptoms first start, but with pressing issues in their own lives, many stop staying in touch. They assume others are still visiting and offering support, but few people stay engaged months afterward, even as needs persist and increase. The paralyzed man in Bethesda had no one to help him into the pool, perhaps because, after 38 years of disability, people had stopped showing up (John 5:2–7).

If you’re going to visit, consider offering concrete help at the same time — anything from stopping by the grocery store to running errands to bringing a meal. As James reminds us, it’s easy to say, “‘Go in peace, be warmed and filled,’ without giving them the things needed for the body” (James 2:16).

Even if you stay only for thirty minutes, you could offer to load the dishwasher, straighten up the kitchen, or give a back massage while you talk. Or you could ask if there’s anything else you can help with or projects you can come back to work on. People usually won’t initiate the conversation about their own needs, but they may respond well to specific questions. However you try to help, always ask first, because what is a welcome blessing for some might feel intrusive to others.

2. Be quick to listen and slow to speak.

While we all want to say something profound and comforting, sometimes listening is the most comforting gift we can give.

Friends with chronic illness may not mention their latest symptoms or struggles for fear of sounding like chronic complainers, but they may welcome the opportunity to share what’s going on. Strive to listen without immediately passing judgment. Resist offering them a “cure” for their sorrow. And don’t pry if they’d rather not talk more about it now. Instead of asking the general question, “How are you doing?” you might ask instead, “How are you doing today?” which is more personal and easier to answer.

Remembering what not to say is often more important than remembering what to say. I say that as someone who has too often said too much. Don’t minimize what they’re going through. Don’t compare their suffering to others who are doing it “better.” Avoid sentences that start with “At least . . .” Don’t throw out platitudes like, “Count your blessings.” Don’t tell them that you know their condition will improve or that they will be healed, because no one knows what the future holds. Again, I give these examples as someone who regrets having said them all before.

“Remembering what not to say is often more important than remembering what to say.”

Faithful friends weep with those who weep (Romans 12:15). They acknowledge how difficult their situation is. They let their sick friends vent for a time, and then encourage them to put their hope in the Lord Jesus. They assure them that God will never leave them, and reassure them that their suffering will not be wasted. They remind them of the glory that awaits in heaven, where there will be no more pain or tears.

Many of us in this generation have heard cautions not to use Scripture like a baseball bat, as if we could bludgeon suffering people into feeling better, but don’t be afraid to share God’s word altogether. Since God’s word gives true comfort, by all means, bring verses to share, but do so patiently and with care. Choose the verses that have been meaningful to you in your trials, and explain why. For example, I have found hope in passages like these:

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid. (John 14:27)

We do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as 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 4:16–18)

This I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. (Lamentations 3:21–23)

3. Take the most caring, most effective action: pray.

Pray consistently for your friends with chronic illness. They need prayer not only for their physical needs — including strength, healing, and reprieve from pain — but also for their emotional and spiritual needs. With chronic struggles, it’s common to feel discouraged, disillusioned, and depressed as days go by without improvement. While we can’t change their situation or outlook ourselves, God loves to work through our prayers.

When friends share their prayer requests, pray with them right away, if possible. Not only does it reinforce your genuine care, but it also ensures that you really do pray. It’s easy to stop earnestly praying for people with long-term conditions, but our prayers have great power (James 5:16), so don’t give up. Remind people that they aren’t forgotten by occasionally texting them what you’re praying for them.

“Be especially quick to listen and slow to speak when your friends are hurting.”

You might offer to pray with them through a psalm of lament like Psalm 13, 43, or 142. Lamenting together is a beautiful way to acknowledge what’s hard and to cry out to God with them, while entrusting their situation to him. Read a few verses at a time, followed by spontaneous words of request or trust. If your friend would prefer just to listen, try inserting their name into a psalm like Psalm 23, 46, or 139 as you pray it aloud.

Now Is Not Too Late

Ministering to people with chronic pain or illness can leave us exhausted if we believe it’s all up to us. Or, if we’ve made mistakes in the past and ended up hurting someone we wanted to help, we may wonder if our efforts are worth it. But caring for our wounded friends is not all up to us, and our imperfect efforts really are worth it. God will give us fresh strength and wisdom as we wait for him and serve by the power he supplies (Isaiah 40:31; 1 Peter 4:11).

If you’ve grown weary and stopped checking in, don’t let guilt keep you away. Instead, go ahead and reach out now, because it’s never too late. We cannot fix our friends’ problems, but we can keep showing up, meeting their physical needs, listening to their struggles, encouraging them in Christ, and bringing them before the only One big enough to heal, sustain, and deliver them.

In a season that focuses on gifts, I often overlook one of the most priceless ones. It’s a gift I’ve dreaded, refused, and longed to give back, but it has been invaluable in shaping me and drawing me to Jesus. It’s the unwelcome gift of suffering.

Suffering does not seem like a good gift. Job’s friends saw it as punishment for an unrighteous life. Most people, including me, avoid it whenever possible. Even thinking about it can fill me with a sense of fear.

Yet the Bible shows us that suffering is an intentional gift. Though we are never told to seek it out, we can know, if we are in Christ, that God gives us suffering for our good.

Comfort Can Make Us Forget

God used the wilderness to shape the wandering children of Israel, so they would learn to trust him for all their needs and live by his word (Deuteronomy 8:3). In the wilderness, God’s presence was unmistakable; his direction, clear. He provided for the Israelites what they could not provide for themselves and fulfilled all his promises to them (Joshua 23:14).

God wanted his people to remember how he delivered them in those difficult days — he knew how important the wilderness was to their faith. He wanted them to remember his tender care, and he knew that when they were prosperous, they would be tempted to forget him. They would assume they could provide for themselves and would turn away. So he says through Moses,

Take care lest you forget the Lord your God . . . lest, when you have eaten and are full and have built good houses and live in them, and when your herds and flocks multiply and your silver and gold is multiplied and all that you have is multiplied, then your heart be lifted up, and you forget the Lord your God . . . who led you through the great and terrifying wilderness, with its fiery serpents and scorpions and thirsty ground where there was no water, who brought you water out of the flinty rock, who fed you in the wilderness with manna that your fathers did not know, that he might humble you and test you, to do you good in the end. Beware lest you say in your heart, “My power and the might of my hand have gotten me this wealth.” (Deuteronomy 8:11–17)

In essence, God told them that in times of plenty and abundance, they needed to reflect on past times of struggle and remember how he met them in it. The great and terrifying wilderness with its fiery serpents and thirsty ground was the place they learned of his faithfulness and provision.

This is the opposite perspective of the world, which urges us to look back and focus on the good times and to work for future success and comfort. But God knows the gifts of success and comfort are temporal, only to be enjoyed while we have them. Apart from God, they don’t foster lasting joy and often lead to bitterness when they are taken away.

Where Great Prayers Were Prayed

God never promised to give us thriving ministries, perfect marriages, obedient children, healthy bodies, comfortable bank accounts, or protection from painful trials. But he has promised to be with us in trouble, which can be a greater blessing than the absence of trouble.

“God has promised to be with us in trouble, which is a far greater blessing than the absence of trouble.”

His presence feels nearer. His embrace tighter. And when the trial is removed, we have a deeper faith, rooted in God’s character and love. Just looking back at God’s faithfulness in trials anchors us. The memory of the presence of God in our pain is enough to make us love Jesus more, long for heaven, and fall to our knees in gratitude.

Joseph Parker, a British pastor in the mid-1800s, speaks of the value of the great and terrible wilderness. He says, “The ‘great and terrible wilderness’ was the place where our great prayers were prayed. . . . You do not know what you said in that long night of wilderness and solitude; the words were taken down; if you could read them now, you would be surprised at their depth, richness, and unction. You owe your very life to the wilderness which made you afraid” (The People’s Bible, 80).

Suffering Deepened My Faith

I owe the depth of my faith and my love for Christ to the wilderness that made me afraid. I learned to lament, to press into God, to depend on him completely in the wilderness. I don’t remember what I cried out to God in the dark, but I do remember that God answered with himself.

“I owe the depth of my faith and my love for Christ to the wilderness that made me afraid.”

Friends were around me, but no one could touch the deepest parts of my pain. I couldn’t even articulate how I felt. The emotions often seemed bigger than I was. It was in crying out, in throwing myself on his mercy, and in praying desperate prayers, that I met God most intimately. He knows that our experience of him and his unmistakable provision in suffering can mark and ground our faith. If we truly are comforted by God in our pain, we likely will never forget it.

That is why suffering is a gift. Not the suffering itself, but the turning to God in suffering, because that is where we encounter him. The greater the pain, the closer God comes. And the closer he comes, the more joy he offers. In his presence is fullness of joy (Psalm 16:11), and he offers joy for those he chooses to bring near (Psalm 65:4). This otherworldly, counterintuitive, overflowing joy assures us that heaven is real, God is good, and glory awaits.

Tearing Wrapping Paper

I have come to see that this life is like wrapping paper and ribbons. We want our lives to look beautiful, and we spend most of our energy making sure they are. This wrapping is what we can see and touch and experience, both the tangible and the intangible. It includes our families, our friends, our homes, our accomplishments, our physical appearance, our money, our gifts — all the pursuits we spend time on, appreciate, and invest in. God wants us to enjoy these gifts which are from him, though none is permanent or indestructible.

Suffering tears that wrapping paper, and the process permanently changes us. Life as we knew it may never be restored, and we appropriately mourn what we’ve lost. We look at the torn paper longingly, wishing that we could at least tape it back together. We look at other people’s intact paper and shiny ribbons and wonder why only ours have been damaged, sometimes almost shredded. It doesn’t seem fair. We’re tempted to wonder what we’ve done wrong.

But as we sit with our torn paper, we begin to realize that the paper wasn’t an end in itself. It was only temporary, never meant to last forever, like our earthly tents, which are not our permanent dwellings. We know we will deal with pain and loss until our true home in heaven (2 Corinthians 5:1–4).

While the paper was once our focus, when it rips, we notice that there is something more. We see that the paper, whether beautiful or plain, was just there to enfold a gift. The gift is the item of supreme value, and the torn paper enables us, perhaps for the first time, to notice it. Even a glimpse of the gift is breathtaking. While the wrapping paper had an important purpose, it fades when we see the unparalleled beauty of the gift. The gift is God himself — the only treasure that will last.

Gift of Suffering

We’ll delight in Christ endlessly in heaven, and encountering his beauty and comfort on earth gives us a small foretaste of that eternal happiness. For me, experiencing God in my suffering is the closest I’ve come to pure joy.

Suffering has taken my eyes off the temporary and fixed them on the eternal. My faith is not theoretical, not a set of doctrines and principles that others have adopted; it is personal and real. As my outer nature is wasting away and my paper has ripped, I have glimpsed a weight of glory beyond all comparison.

So this Christmas, if your paper is ragged and torn, don’t despair. Look carefully to find the gift of supreme value, that can never be taken away and will last throughout eternity. It is the matchless gift of our Savior, who is Christ the Lord.

My fourth miscarriage flattened me. I couldn’t believe it. I’d buried an infant son a few years earlier and was unprepared for yet another loss. I’d finally started to feel like myself again after Paul’s death, but the miscarriage left me bewildered and unsure of what I could trust.

Months before, my husband and I had planned to go on a retreat to the Cove in Asheville, North Carolina, but I miscarried two days before the conference. Needless to say, I didn’t want to go. Add to that, the retreat was on the book of Job — and I felt too much like Job already. But I went anyway, and as John Piper began teaching on the first two chapters, my outlook radically changed. During those few days immersed in Job, God reoriented my life.

At the end of the weekend, I saw how much of my faith had been Scotch-taped to God’s blessings. I had valued God not for who he was but for what he’d given me. As God took away the things I treasured, I had pulled away from him, wondering why he would let the losses happen to me. But as I studied the book of Job, I saw that God was still worthy of my worship, even in my losses.

Will Job Curse God in Suffering?

The book begins by telling us about Job, a wealthy and righteous man who feared God and turned away from evil. When Satan enters God’s throne room, the Lord points out Job’s virtue. The devil responds,

Does Job fear God for no reason? Have you not put a hedge around him and his house and all that he has on every side? You have blessed the work of his hands and his possessions have increased in the land. But stretch out your hand and touch all that he has, and he will curse you to your face. (Job 1:9–11)

Satan proclaims that Job loves God not for who God is, but because of what God has given him. The Lord is confident in Job’s faithfulness, so he permits Satan to touch whatever Job has, so long as he does not harm Job himself.

And so disaster comes, in a flood. Messengers are suddenly standing in line to tell Job about one calamity after another. Everything Job has is destroyed. His property. His servants. His livestock. Even his children. In one fateful day, everything is gone. Job goes from one of the wealthiest men in the East to one of the poorest.

Amazingly, however, Job responds not with anger or turning away, but with humility and worship as he blesses the Lord (Job 1:21). Job’s magnificent response decimates Satan’s initial premise, but the devil refuses to concede defeat, this time maintaining Job’s allegiance was tied to his physical well-being. So, God gives Satan permission to afflict Job’s body, so long as he spares his life. Soon, Job’s body is covered with disgusting sores, but he still refuses to speak evil against God (Job 2:9–10).

God Is the Reward

These initial chapters of Job have taught me many important truths, truths that continue to shape my life. First, when we worship and trust God in trial, we declare that God is more valuable than anything he gives us.

“When we worship and trust God in trial, we declare that God is more valuable than anything he gives us.”

God, not our earthly blessings, is the ultimate object of our delight. Job continued to trust God after everything he had was destroyed, declaring, “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21). While this response speaks highly of Job, it speaks far more highly of God. God is as worthy of our praise in times of loss, pain, and scarcity as he is in times of fruitfulness and abundance.

This first truth undid me. I saw how linear my functional theology was — if I worshiped God and obeyed him, I expected him to give me what I wanted. And if I remained faithful through one big trial, he wouldn’t keep letting me suffer. In my mind, the reward for following Jesus was a prosperous, fruit-filled, blessing-laden, trouble-free life. But as I saw in Job, God himself is the reward. When we turn away from God in suffering, questioning his love and care, we are agreeing with Satan — that God’s value is tied to the material blessings he gives us. And that is an immeasurable assault on God’s worth.

The Heavens Are Watching

Second, Job taught me that my response to suffering matters. The book takes us into the throne room of God, where we see that the angels and demons, the unseen world, are watching what is happening on earth. They see our responses. When we respond to trials and loss with worship and praise, we are demonstrating God’s value to the heavenly realms.

God intends that “through the church the manifold wisdom of God might be made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 3:10). The rulers and authorities in the heavenly places learn about God and his wisdom, in part, by watching us. Though we may feel that we are suffering in obscurity, we are never alone. Our struggles are being seen by countless heavenly beings, so the stakes are higher than we think, and our calling is greater than we can imagine.

Through our faithfulness in trials, we show the unseen world that God himself is more precious than anything he gives or takes away.

Good Purposes in Suffering

Though we may not know why we are suffering, we do know there is always a reason. Everything in our life ultimately comes through the hands of God. Satan cannot touch us without God’s permission. And we know that, in Christ, the God who knows all our sorrows and holds all our tears in a bottle is always for us (Psalm 56:8; Romans 8:31). Though God never told Job why he was suffering, Job knew he must have had a reason. He knew God could be trusted.

We know that Job’s suffering came in part because God trusted him. God knew that Job’s faith would come forth like gold (Job 23:10), albeit refined by fire (1 Peter 1:7), and that God would be glorified through it. So our suffering may be entrusted to us by God to display his glory.

Suffering is a great revealer of what we value and what we cling to. God’s value is not in the gifts that he gave Job, though they were many. God’s value lies in who he is — and often it is in the taking away of gifts that we see him most clearly. Job knew God before his calamity, but in suffering he saw God in a new and more profound way. And that changed him.

How Will You Receive Suffering?

After hearing the message of Job that weekend, I was convinced I needed to trust God with what I could not see. I needed to put the glory of God above my glory. I needed to praise God through loss and pain, highlighting his worth and declaring that he is more precious than anything he might give me.

“God is as worthy of our praise in times of loss, pain, and scarcity as he is in times of fruitfulness and abundance.”

The truths I learned about God through Job have carried me through single parenting, an unwanted separation and divorce, and my current declining health, which could end in quadriplegia. Without these truths, I would have turned inward, giving in to doubt and despair. With them, I can turn to the Lord with gratitude for his unending love and presence, even when the worst happens to me.

How will you respond to suffering? Will you see it as a sign that God has abandoned you? Will you curse God and walk away, convinced that he doesn’t exist or doesn’t care? Or will you bless God even in great pain, and trust that he has a purpose, maybe ten thousand purposes, for your pain, even if you cannot see any of them?

Such trust will deepen your love for God and bind you to him with cords that nothing and no one can sever.

God never makes a mistake.

I vividly remember those words, a chapter title in Evelyn Christenson’s book What Happens When Women Pray.

Honestly, when I first read them, I was cynical. They sounded trite and naive. I arrogantly assumed that the author hadn’t struggled much in her life, or else she wouldn’t have made such a bold claim. In my mind, God was good and all-powerful, but to say that he never made mistakes had sweeping implications that seemed inconsistent with the massive evil and suffering in the world. Christenson’s statement so annoyed me I was tempted to stop reading.

As I read her book, I had just been through the fallout of a marital crisis while also pregnant with our oldest daughter. I was grateful we had put our marriage back together, but to say that God didn’t make a mistake seemed far-fetched. My life had been difficult on many fronts already. I had lived in and out of the hospital after contracting polio as an infant. I had been bullied throughout grade school. I had recently suffered three miscarriages.

I had a hard time imagining that God hadn’t made a mistake somewhere in my trials.

All My Suffering?

While I struggled to believe he had never made a mistake, I did believe that God had been in at least some of my early suffering.

“God had not made a mistake in making my son, in giving him to us for a time, and in taking him back to himself.”

When I came to Christ, even at sixteen, I was already beginning to see God’s purpose in my disability. I had happened upon John 9, where Jesus tells his disciples that the blind man’s condition was not because of any sin, but so that his life could glorify God. When I read that, I knew that God was speaking directly to me. He reassured me that my suffering had a purpose, which changed how I viewed my life and my struggles.

Still, even though I had seen God use my physical challenges for good, I doubted that principle applied to all my suffering.

What God Says About Sovereignty

Despite my skepticism, since I was leading the discussion on Christenson’s book at church, I had to keep reading it. I pored over the Bible before our meeting, asking God for wisdom and guidance, and was drawn to passages on God’s sovereignty and purpose. I grabbed a concordance and made a list of Scriptures that stuck out to me, like these:

Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs on your head are numbered. (Matthew 10:29–30)

I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted. (Job 42:2)

Many are the plans in the mind of a man, but it is the purpose of the Lord that will stand. (Proverbs 19:21)

My counsel shall stand, and I will accomplish all my purpose. . . . I have spoken and I will bring it to pass; I have purposed, and I will do it. (Isaiah 46:10–11)

I kept rereading these verses even though they made no sense to me.

Truth I Could Not Shake

As the discussion began, everyone had an opinion on the same line that had arrested me: “God never makes a mistake.” Some people decidedly disagreed. It angered them. “Of course, hard things happen in the world,” they insisted, “but we shouldn’t attribute them to God.” Others shared their painful experiences and struggles with loss.

Someone said (rather matter-of-factly), “But we know Romans 8:28 says, ‘All things work together for good, for those who love the Lord and are called according to his purpose,’ which means that God is in control of everything and will use it all for our good.” Her cool words felt more like a platitude or cliché than the truth as they hung in the air. Her detached insistence on this doctrine, apparently without sympathy or understanding, tempted me to defend the other perspective.

Yet somehow, I couldn’t do that. Somehow, after reading the Bible carefully, I couldn’t dismiss the idea that God never makes a mistake. Somehow, deep inside me, I knew that the author’s words aligned with Scripture. Somehow, I believed this was life-changing truth. And so, I proclaimed my convictions to the group, even while I did not yet fully understand them.

Why Did My Son Die?

A few weeks later, I was asked to put my words to the test. At a routine 20-week ultrasound, we learned that our unborn baby, Paul, had a life-threatening heart problem that would require surgery. I told myself and others that God never makes a mistake. I repeated those words until they became part of my vocabulary. In an inexplicable way, God’s peace came while I declared those words, words that enveloped me throughout the pregnancy.

Paul had a successful surgery at birth and was thriving. But almost two months later, he died unexpectedly because of a doctor’s inattention. Though we were numb, my husband and I spoke at Paul’s funeral, reiterating that God never makes a mistake. We’d been helping each other find hope in the Lord through those words.

At the time, I meant those words sincerely, but weeks after Paul’s funeral, those same words once again seemed hollow and trite. Why did Paul die? Why did God permit this? This was because of a doctor’s negligence — hadn’t God made a mistake this time?

Theology — all of it — seemed empty and wooden to me. None of it made sense. The words would ricochet inside my mind and land nowhere. I didn’t know what to think or how to pray. So I didn’t. And I drifted from God.

Months later, God graciously drew me back to himself. While sobbing in my car, I encountered the radical love of God and I saw the rock-solid truth in the words I had pushed away. They were words I could build my life on. Words that could carry me through the darkest days. God had not made a mistake in making Paul, in giving him to us for a time, and in taking him back to himself. All of Paul’s life was filled with divine purpose.

God’s Plan A

After Paul’s death, I read Joni Eareckson Tada’s book When God Weeps, which further helped me see the importance of believing in God’s sovereignty. Joni says,

Either God rules, or Satan sets the world’s agenda and God is limited to reacting. In which case, the Almighty would become Satan’s clean-up boy, sweeping up after the devil has trampled through and done his worst, finding a way to wring good out of the situation somehow. But it wasn’t his best plan for you, wasn’t plan A, wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. In other words, although God would manage to patch things up, your suffering itself would be meaningless. (84)

“My suffering had meaning. All of it. I was living God’s plan A.”

Like Christenson’s chapter title, Joni’s words hit me hard. My suffering had meaning. All of it. I was living God’s plan A. Embracing and understanding her words changed my perspective on life, giving me strength to press on through the darkest trials, looking for God’s hand, grateful that my pain had a divine purpose.

Even in My Nightmares

God never makes a mistake. The phrase has shaped and reshaped my life and has anchored me through many storms. I clung to it when I was diagnosed with post-polio syndrome. And I kept repeating it after my first husband left us.

I needed the assurance that God was with me in my trials. The assurance that even when my nightmares came true, God had not made a mistake. He would use even my most dreaded outcomes for my good and his glory. Christenson says,

This is the place you reach when after years and years of trials and difficulties, you see that all has been working out for your good, and that God’s will is perfect. You see that he has made no mistakes. He knew all of the “what if’s” in your life. When you finally recognize this, even during the trials, it’s possible to have joy, deep down joy. (89–90)

I didn’t have a category for that kind of faith or perspective when I first read those words years ago. But now, over twenty years later, I am grateful for them. Grateful that the same God who walked with Evelyn Christenson through the various trials in her life, and taught her how to pray, has walked with me and taught me as well.

Most of all, I’m grateful to know that Jesus, who died that we might live, who loves us with an everlasting love, and who cares about every minute detail of our lives, will never make a mistake.