Some seasons leave us carrying more questions than answers, and our hearts feel the weight of both the past and the unknown.
We often shed tears—tears of grief, tears of longing, tears of sadness over what was and what may never be.
And in those tears, I remind myself: there is purpose in our pain. There is more to our story than I can see. Our tears are not for nothing.
I have never been particularly good at patience, in any area of my life. My youngest daughter is very much the same. It’s a strength in many ways—when we want to accomplish something, when something is within our control, we give everything we have to make it happen. But when we are not in control—and so often we are not—that same trait becomes a weakness we must learn to surrender.
One of her first days back to school after living near the hospital for the first seven weeks of her clinical trial, we were running late. She was eleven at the time, in fifth grade, and being late simply wasn’t an option. If you’re late, you miss that precious morning time with friends before school starts. The next two recesses don’t make up for it, because third, fourth, and fifth graders are together only in the morning. When your friends and family are spread across different grades, that time matters. You do not want to be late.
As we headed into town, the highway that leads directly to the freeway—and then to her school—was completely blocked. Ambulances, police officers, firetrucks. Not just our main route, but the next one I tried as well. We kept searching for a way around, and frustration began to creep in.
“We should have left earlier.”
“Why are they blocking every road?”
“I’m going to be late—we might as well turn around,” she said at one point.
In moments like that, the right now can be the only thing we see. But the truth is, being delayed on the way to school is a small inconvenience compared to what others may be facing. Finding another route costs time—yes. Inconvenient—absolutely. But catastrophic—no.
I suggested we use the time to pray for the people involved in the accident, as a way to shift our focus while we waited. She prayed—there was a little sass in it—but she prayed.
Later that day, I went to work and shared the morning with a friend. He has been one of my faith mentors for over twenty years. He knows how heavy this battle has been. He knows how desperately I want God to heal her now—to reach down, to pull us out of the valley, to give us a miraculous testimony on the other side that I can glorify Him with.
He said, “Your trip to school this morning reminds me of your battle.”
“You want God to heal her now, to end this suffering. But I wonder who He is trying to save through her story. Just like this morning—your journey took longer because ambulances were rescuing someone. A stranger. A friend. A loved one. If you knew who was in that ambulance, wouldn’t you wait as long as it took for them to be saved?”
“Maybe that’s what God is doing with your story. Maybe He’s using your trial to draw others closer to Him. If you knew who He was waiting for your story to reach before answering your prayer, it would be easier to wait.”
Every time I break down, I want it to be over. I am tired. This perspective brings me back to the truth that it’s not just about us. If I knew whose heart our testimony would bring to heaven, I would wait for them—because them joining us there is the most important thing of all.
Your story has purpose. There is purpose in your pain. God is moving in ways we cannot see, doing far more than we can imagine. Keep reminding yourself: I am not fighting this battle alone.“
He works all things together for good.”
—Romans 8:28