Jesus Himself became a little child; He served and loved and trusted too. He was subject to His parents and knows the paths our children trod. He forgave while freely giving up His life to grant our own. He took the time to bless and care for children, and blesses us with ours as well.

Let us become like little children, singing freely to the King of Kings. Faces lifted, voices ringing, unconcerned with notes and rhythm, twisting melodies in swirls of wonder, joy in every note they sing. There’s no embarrassed silence, self-conscious mumbling or comparing of their voice to others. The joy within is echoed in the voice without and warms the hearts of those who listen.
Let us become like little children, free to glory in their father’s care. Children do not seek to earn the love and favor of their parents – instead, they glory in belonging, full of joy in simple pleasures. When they’re naughty, they do not fear being abandoned or disowned. They are secure in love and know it.
Let us become like little children, forgiving faults without a grudge.
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Each day I live is one day closer to the day of my death. I do not know whether I will die young or old. But I do know that God has fashioned all of my days from eternity past. I have trusted Him in life and I will trust Him in my death. And when I die, I will finally see Him face to face. I will finally hear the words, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” When I die is when I will finally live.

When I die young, please don’t be sad. Know that I am finally free from sin. That beloved and yet hated vice, that secret and yet public sin, that long-fought or recently discovered battle – all are done away with and gone.
When I die young, remember it’s okay to cry. Death is our enemy, and we were created to live forever. It is unnatural to die and even more unnatural to die young. Yet even as you cry, remember that death – although our enemy – is a defeated enemy.
When I die young, I will be forgotten. Although my husband and children will remember me, my grandchildren will only hear stories about me. And my great-grandchildren may not even know my name. When I am forgotten here on earth, know that I am remembered by God. My name is written in His book, and I will never be forgotten by Him.
When I die old, please don’t be sad. Know that I am finally free from pain. The aches and pains that plagued me, the diseases that gradually assailed me, the knowledge of my finitude that always pained me –
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By giving expression to our most bleak feelings, Psalm 88 comforts us in a curious way. It shows us that we are not alone in our doubts, confusions, and complaints. Not only have other believers felt the same things, but God has inscripturated those sentiments to assure us that it is legitimate to feel such things and to pour them out in prayer.”[4] Psalm 88 may well have comforted our Savior during His sufferings.

Psalm 88 is the darkest Psalm in the Book of Psalms. The LORD is only mentioned in three different places; once in a prayer of belief: “LORD, God of my salvation … incline Your ear to my cry” (vs. 1-2), and twice in an urgent plea for rescue which has gone unheard: “LORD, I have called daily upon You … LORD, why do You cast off my soul?” (vs. 9, 14). Perhaps you are experiencing a dark time of grief right now. As the darkness and sorrow threaten to overwhelm you, look to Psalm 88 as a guide for your thoughts and prayers and a beacon of hope in the midst of a confusing, threatening, or unchanging providence.
Although we do not know the circumstances that inspired Psalm 88, verses 1-9 contain many words that paint a picture of real, deep, raw, and personal grief. The Psalmist complains that his life draws near to the grave; he is adrift; he is cast into the lowest pit. Darkness is his constant companion. Four verses of Psalm 88 use the imagery of water to create a picture of complete and hopeless despair. The Psalmist has been laid in the depths; God has afflicted him with all His waves; he is shut up and cannot get out; terrors cut him off like water, and have engulfed him. The water experience in this Psalm is not a family-friendly outing to the beach. Rather, it is the terror of drowning with no one nearby to deliver. There is no escape.
Images of Raw Grief
Psalm 88 brings to mind one of the greatest sorrows that can befall us: a parent experiencing the death of their child. Almost two years later, the images remain engraved in my memory. Grown men weeping shamelessly. A mother, weak and wounded in every way – physically, emotionally, and spiritually – being helped to the graveside of her child. The finality of the dirt being thrown onto the casket. The awful feeling that everything about this scene is wrong.
Sometimes the enemy of death seems to come as a relief – after a full life well-lived, an ailing grandparent is taken home to glory. At other times, the enemy of death comes as an unexpected shock, a nighttime horror, a sorrow that will be carried with us to our own graves.
Grief Remembered: Naomi
The Bible doesn’t sugar-coat grief and despair. In fact, many of our favorite characters are surrounded with sorrow, which doesn’t go away just because there’s a happy ending. A good example of this sorrow is Naomi, whose story is told in the book of Ruth.
We are told of Naomi’s loss in cryptic, non-descriptive terms. After departing her hometown to live in a foreign – and pagan – country, we are told, “Then Elimelech, Naomi’s husband, died; and she was left, and her two sons” (Ruth 1:4). We aren’t told the nature of the calamity that took Naomi’s husband away; we don’t know how old he was; we don’t know what kind of marriage they had. We only know that his sons were not yet married, and that, after Elimelech’s death, both of the sons married women from their new country and lived there for about ten years. We are told, again in terse, unemotional language: “Then both Mahlon and Chilion also died; so the woman survived her two sons and her husband” (Ruth 1:5).
How did the death of her husband and two sons impact Naomi? We know that she grieved deeply. In fact, her grief was so great that she asked for her name to be changed. In Hebrew culture, names were of great importance: your name told a story and had important significance. “To the Hebrew way of thinking, to know a person’s name is to know his character, to know him. The name is the person.”[1]When Naomi finally returned to her home country with her daughter-in-law in tow, the women of the town came out to greet her, calling, “Is this Naomi?” We are told the full distress of Naomi’s sorrow when she responds: “Do not call me Naomi; call me Mara, for the Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me. I went out full, and the LORD has brought me home again empty. Why do you call me Naomi, since the LORD has testified against me, and the Almighty has afflicted me?” (Ruth 1:20-21).
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