His Silent Presence

Every once in awhile, I hear it – faintly, through the monitor, the sound of a little body shifting in bed.  I am comforted by their peaceful sleep, the confidence that tomorrow morning, I will hear their little voices calling my name.  I will burst through their door singing silly good morning songs.  There will be laughter and kisses and hugs.

Tonight mothers are weeping because tomorrow there will be no little voices.  And others are weeping from the strain of not knowing – clinging to hope, wrestling with fear.

Angry hearts are shaking fists at the sky.  Broken hearts look at Him and scream, “Why?”

There are no good answers on nights like tonight.  Theology feels empty and meaningless.  This is so hard for us to accept – some times it is ok for there to be no words.

I remember dark moments in my memory, when it was my shaking fists and screaming questions.  I waited for Him to defend Himself, explain Himself, give me something, anything.  I never heard His voice in that place, but I know in my bones, I heard His tears and felt His agony over my shattered heart.

This is a God I can trust – who knows when words are no use, who leans into my pain and bears it with me, who can pierce through my anguish with a ray of hope brought on by His silent presence.

For all the grieving fathers and mothers tonight, may you feel the Father enfold you and weep with you.  May you know you’re not alone.

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