Beyond words...
There are moments that steal the air from your lungs.
Moments where the world seems to tilt on its axis, and all the things that once felt sure suddenly feel shaky. Today has been one of those moments for me.
When the news came that Camp Mystic, an all girls Christian summer camp had been struck by flash floods, the shock was immediate. What should have been a place of joy, faith, and childhood wonder was suddenly swallowed by tragedy. The waters rose quickly, overnight, giving little warning. Campers were caught in the dark. Lives were swept away. Parents are still searching. Friends are still hoping. And for many, the questions are growing louder than the answers. The surrounding area was also devastated.
Families are mourning. First responders are exhausted. Communities are shaken. It’s one of those rare national moments when grief feels personal, even if you’ve never been there yourself. Because it’s not just about a place, it’s about people. Daughters. Sisters. Friends. Counselors. Children.
And when children die… when floodwaters rise in the night… when the worst becomes real… something inside us breaks. We’re left with a kind of sorrow that doesn’t resolve easily. And in that sorrow, our hearts cry out with the same questions we have asked for centuries...
WHERE WAS GOD?
Why didn’t He stop this?
If He’s good, how could this happen?
These are not weak questions. They are not evidence of doubt. They are the natural cries of a heart that was not designed for death. We were made for Eden. And every time tragedy like this strikes, it exposes the deep longing in our souls for something better, something whole, something eternal.
It is completely human to wrestle in moments like this. No one is immune. Not pastors. Not theologians. Not longtime Christians or brand-new believers. When we see children go missing, when we watch lives ripped apart, when we imagine the pain of those living through it... we ache. And that ache is not a failure of faith. It’s evidence of love.
In the middle of our questions, we must remember that pain is not the enemy of faith. Emotion does not cancel truth. And even when everything shakes, the goodness of God remains unchanged.
That doesn’t mean we minimize the sorrow. Quite the opposite. It means we enter into it fully, because we know God does too. This is not a God who remains detached. He is not a God who sends tragedy to teach lessons or take people away because He needed them more. That kind of theology is not only WRONG, it’s CRUEL. And it is not who JESUS is.
The truth is that God’s heart breaks too.
In John 11, when Jesus stood at the tomb of His friend Lazarus, He didn’t launch into a sermon. He didn’t explain the reasons behind death. He didn’t rush to resolve the tension. He wept. Even though He knew resurrection was coming, He let His heart break. That’s who God is. He doesn’t just allow space for grief... He joins us in it.
Right now, I believe He is weeping. He weeps with the parents who are still waiting by the phone. He weeps with the families who already received the unthinkable news. He weeps with the campers who saw too much and the staff who are carrying more than they can express. He weeps because His love is deeper than we know. And in that love, He doesn’t leave.
Psalm 34 says the Lord is close to the brokenhearted. Those are not just kind words for hard days; they are a promise for impossible ones.
God is close. Closer than the breath we can’t seem to catch. Closer than the questions. Closer than the fear. He collects every tear. He sees every ache. He knows what it’s like to lose. He lost His Son too.
This tragedy was not from Him. But He will not waste it. He will walk through it with every broken heart. He will carry what no one else can carry. He will sit with those who cannot yet stand. And somehow, in ways we cannot yet see, He will redeem what looks unredeemable.
So no, we don’t have all the answers. But we do have a choice. We can collapse under the weight of what we don’t understand, or we can cling to what we do. God is still who He has always been. Good. Present. Faithful. Steady. He is not shaken. He is not absent. And He will never stop being God, even when life makes no sense.
So, if you’re sitting in grief today, if you’re angry, afraid, or questioning, I want you to know this: you're not alone. You do not need to have polished words or perfect faith. All you need is honesty. And the courage to keep showing up in front of the God who still holds you. He’s not asking you to understand. He’s asking you to trust that He’s still near.
Even now. Especially now. He is good.
Father God,
We don’t have the words. We just have pain. So we bring You that pain, raw and real. We lift up the families who are still waiting, still clinging to hope in the middle of the night. Meet them in their desperation. Hold their hearts in ways no one else can. Be the comfort they don’t even have words to ask for.
We lift up the families who already know what they’ve lost. Oh God, wrap them up in Your presence. Let them scream. Let them cry. Let them collapse in Your arms. And don’t let them feel rushed. Hold their sorrow as long as it takes. Show them that even here, You are still Emmanuel... God with us.
We lift up the campers who survived but now carry fear, trauma, or guilt they were never meant to bear. Heal what we can’t see. Bring peace into the parts of their hearts that don’t know how to be peaceful anymore. Surround them with love that doesn’t flinch.
We lift up the counselors and staff, the ones who were there, who did what they could, who are now holding the weight of impossible memories. Give them strength for every new day. Let them know it wasn’t their fault. Let them rest in Your arms and recover slowly, surrounded by grace.
We lift up the first responders, the rescue teams, and the volunteers. Thank You for their courage. For their tears. For their relentless effort. Replenish what they’ve poured out. Restore what has been broken in them.
We lift up the whole community. The ones watching. The ones grieving. The ones who can’t stop thinking about it. The ones in the surrounding areas whose lives are also changed because of loss and suffering. Help us not to move on too quickly. Help us show up with compassion. Help us reflect Your heart.
God, be near. Be real. Be enough.
We ask this in the name of Jesus, the One who suffers with us, weeps for us, and never lets go.
Amen.
Moments where the world seems to tilt on its axis, and all the things that once felt sure suddenly feel shaky. Today has been one of those moments for me.
When the news came that Camp Mystic, an all girls Christian summer camp had been struck by flash floods, the shock was immediate. What should have been a place of joy, faith, and childhood wonder was suddenly swallowed by tragedy. The waters rose quickly, overnight, giving little warning. Campers were caught in the dark. Lives were swept away. Parents are still searching. Friends are still hoping. And for many, the questions are growing louder than the answers. The surrounding area was also devastated.
Families are mourning. First responders are exhausted. Communities are shaken. It’s one of those rare national moments when grief feels personal, even if you’ve never been there yourself. Because it’s not just about a place, it’s about people. Daughters. Sisters. Friends. Counselors. Children.
And when children die… when floodwaters rise in the night… when the worst becomes real… something inside us breaks. We’re left with a kind of sorrow that doesn’t resolve easily. And in that sorrow, our hearts cry out with the same questions we have asked for centuries...
WHERE WAS GOD?
Why didn’t He stop this?
If He’s good, how could this happen?
These are not weak questions. They are not evidence of doubt. They are the natural cries of a heart that was not designed for death. We were made for Eden. And every time tragedy like this strikes, it exposes the deep longing in our souls for something better, something whole, something eternal.
It is completely human to wrestle in moments like this. No one is immune. Not pastors. Not theologians. Not longtime Christians or brand-new believers. When we see children go missing, when we watch lives ripped apart, when we imagine the pain of those living through it... we ache. And that ache is not a failure of faith. It’s evidence of love.
In the middle of our questions, we must remember that pain is not the enemy of faith. Emotion does not cancel truth. And even when everything shakes, the goodness of God remains unchanged.
That doesn’t mean we minimize the sorrow. Quite the opposite. It means we enter into it fully, because we know God does too. This is not a God who remains detached. He is not a God who sends tragedy to teach lessons or take people away because He needed them more. That kind of theology is not only WRONG, it’s CRUEL. And it is not who JESUS is.
The truth is that God’s heart breaks too.
In John 11, when Jesus stood at the tomb of His friend Lazarus, He didn’t launch into a sermon. He didn’t explain the reasons behind death. He didn’t rush to resolve the tension. He wept. Even though He knew resurrection was coming, He let His heart break. That’s who God is. He doesn’t just allow space for grief... He joins us in it.
Right now, I believe He is weeping. He weeps with the parents who are still waiting by the phone. He weeps with the families who already received the unthinkable news. He weeps with the campers who saw too much and the staff who are carrying more than they can express. He weeps because His love is deeper than we know. And in that love, He doesn’t leave.
Psalm 34 says the Lord is close to the brokenhearted. Those are not just kind words for hard days; they are a promise for impossible ones.
God is close. Closer than the breath we can’t seem to catch. Closer than the questions. Closer than the fear. He collects every tear. He sees every ache. He knows what it’s like to lose. He lost His Son too.
This tragedy was not from Him. But He will not waste it. He will walk through it with every broken heart. He will carry what no one else can carry. He will sit with those who cannot yet stand. And somehow, in ways we cannot yet see, He will redeem what looks unredeemable.
So no, we don’t have all the answers. But we do have a choice. We can collapse under the weight of what we don’t understand, or we can cling to what we do. God is still who He has always been. Good. Present. Faithful. Steady. He is not shaken. He is not absent. And He will never stop being God, even when life makes no sense.
So, if you’re sitting in grief today, if you’re angry, afraid, or questioning, I want you to know this: you're not alone. You do not need to have polished words or perfect faith. All you need is honesty. And the courage to keep showing up in front of the God who still holds you. He’s not asking you to understand. He’s asking you to trust that He’s still near.
Even now. Especially now. He is good.
Father God,
We don’t have the words. We just have pain. So we bring You that pain, raw and real. We lift up the families who are still waiting, still clinging to hope in the middle of the night. Meet them in their desperation. Hold their hearts in ways no one else can. Be the comfort they don’t even have words to ask for.
We lift up the families who already know what they’ve lost. Oh God, wrap them up in Your presence. Let them scream. Let them cry. Let them collapse in Your arms. And don’t let them feel rushed. Hold their sorrow as long as it takes. Show them that even here, You are still Emmanuel... God with us.
We lift up the campers who survived but now carry fear, trauma, or guilt they were never meant to bear. Heal what we can’t see. Bring peace into the parts of their hearts that don’t know how to be peaceful anymore. Surround them with love that doesn’t flinch.
We lift up the counselors and staff, the ones who were there, who did what they could, who are now holding the weight of impossible memories. Give them strength for every new day. Let them know it wasn’t their fault. Let them rest in Your arms and recover slowly, surrounded by grace.
We lift up the first responders, the rescue teams, and the volunteers. Thank You for their courage. For their tears. For their relentless effort. Replenish what they’ve poured out. Restore what has been broken in them.
We lift up the whole community. The ones watching. The ones grieving. The ones who can’t stop thinking about it. The ones in the surrounding areas whose lives are also changed because of loss and suffering. Help us not to move on too quickly. Help us show up with compassion. Help us reflect Your heart.
God, be near. Be real. Be enough.
We ask this in the name of Jesus, the One who suffers with us, weeps for us, and never lets go.
Amen.
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