Things are tough here, Father.

We go through sicknesses and deaths. We see pain in relationships, pain in decisions, pain when we open our eyes at first light. We know it’s coming.

Every moment of the day, someone is crying out the “Why?” and the “Why now, why me, why them?”

Even the “What just happened?!”

But… for me, those things are the very moments that bring me to your Presence. Here, now, at Your feet, clinging. I know if I can get just close enough to brush my hand across the hem of your robe…

You picked me up, used that robe of yours to brush the tears and pain from my face. In love, You lifted me to your lap and began to sing over me with great Joy.

Like a mother hen you gathered up all my hurts and instead of making them vanish, You began to read them to me like a bedtime story. One by one, You gently showed me the events and wounds and tears of my existence as a great saga, reaching from the farthest time ago, from my parents, grandparents and further back, until somehow my story became theirs and everyone’s story became mine. You read it to me, showed me the pictures with your beautiful scarred hand, pointing out the particular tears that molded, not just my life, but all the lives together.

Pain became Plan. Tears became Time to Heal. Heartache became… bearable.

The song You sang over me with great Joy was a song of Victory.

And we celebrated.