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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 3:22-23, ESV).
In over fifty years as a pastor, discussing with others their tragedies topped the list of the most difficult things I did in my ministry.
There were a lot of them: being with a wife as her husband died in the emergency room, talking to a mother whose son (a forest firefighter) was decapitated by a helicopter blade as the helicopter landed in a fire zone, a father and mother whose child was swept away by a flooding river, a man whose partner stole money from their business forcing him into bankruptcy, parents whose child had been molested, and many more.
Fifty years of tough conversations. What did I learn?
Grace. With limited emotional reservoirs, I knew I’d be useless if I couldn’t see the goodness of God in all situations. And that’s the question most were asking in their tragedy, “Why did God allow this to happen?”
Grace not only forgives, but true grace gives hope in trials. Not “present” but “eternal” hope. I knew I represented a God who does work all things to the good. And I needed grace to represent this God as others walked through pain.
Listen. I’ve heard those in loss curse God. I understood that I didn’t need to defend God with shallow words. My job was to listen, allowing their pain to find a sympathetic soul to help them process despairing emotions.
Sometimes, I didn’t make comments or ask questions; I just gave them an hour of listening.
If the timing was right, I would ask three questions, not to challenge but to help their minds come through a cloud of unknowing frustration, to find healing by verbalizing their feelings, defining their questions or uncertainty, and taking a step (however small) forward.
My questions: How do you feel? Do you have any questions for me? What will you do tomorrow?
Presence. When a community experiences tragedy, there’s always a worship and prayer meeting. When answers aren’t easy, sometimes it’s best to lean on a peace that surpasses understanding.
I’ve found that in the midst of discussing tragedies, the presence of God often fills the room. I pray for this to happen. Tragedy isn’t healed by rational explanation, but by a deepening experience with God, allowing Him to wipe away our tears!
That was my plan for all those years — grace, listen, and presence.
Let’s remember Jesus, who, being found in human form, humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross (Philippians 2:8). I remember reading this passage to the mother who had lost her son in the helicopter incident. She said to me. . .
Pastor, pray for me that I allow my pain to be joined with the pain of my Father in heaven, who gave up His Son. I find peace realizing that God has experienced loss, too.
Amen. Let our pain and God’s pain allow us a hope that doesn’t disappoint.