Freedom to Move On

The loss

The text comes in as I’m getting up in the morning. Mom has breathed her last breath. She’s gone.

(I’m okay with getting the message by group text. There are many family members to notify. We knew it was coming any minute. It’s a little early in the day for a phone call, especially for those in the times zones west of me.)

No tears fall. I’ve cried them all already. The day she was diagnosed with “dementia, most likely Alzheimer’s.” As I watched her brain wasting away and her personality disintegrating. Each time she took another drastic step downward. Sitting in my rental car after saying goodbye at her bedside for the last time, before returning home a week ago.

I’ve been grieving for her for a while. 

The relief

At this point, the sense of relief is greater than the sense of loss. I’ve never been in this position before. Not sure what to expect.

The last several years have been busy and stressful for me and my siblings. Bad news about Mom’s falls and emergency room visits. Decisions to be made regarding her living situation and medical needs. Increasing difficulty in her ability to communicate. More frequent trips to see her. More frequent phone calls.

But the worst stress, the greatest trauma, was knowing that one I loved was hurting so much. Witnessing her struggles with pain and physical limitations and cognitive issues and depression and fears and obsessive thinking. She was too aware of her own losses. Yet hesitant, like many in her generation, about taking any medication that would make her feel better emotionally. Part of me just wanted her to move on to a better life, to be freed from all her troubles.

That phase has passed now. Mom is at peace. We’ll be making all those decisions that have to be made after someone dies, but that won’t be nearly as stressful as helplessly watching the continuing decline of a loved one in her nineties.

I’m ready to move on, too. To catch up on all the things I haven’t gotten done because of the extra time I’ve spent helping meet Mom’s needs. Because of the emotional energy being drained by seeing her suffering.

I don’t resent losing that time and energy. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. I’d do it for ten more years if she had that long.

But there’s a welcome sense of freedom from the responsibility and stress. Now I can move on.

The grief

Until my body reminds me that I’m mourning. I’ve experienced a significant loss. Yes, there’s great relief. But there’s also the sorrow of missing her, which will come out one way or another.

Right now it comes out, not in intense emotions, but in physical and mental fatigue. A song pops into my head. “Slow Down,” by Chuck Girard (1974). It’s an invitation to slow down, be still, and wait on the Spirit of the Lord. (Thank You, Father, for bringing this song to mind just when I need it. I haven’t thought about it for many years.)

This is a biblical concept that our busy American culture doesn’t often consider. The Israelites are told to be still in Exodus 14:14, when they’re trapped between Pharaoh’s army and the Red Sea. In Nehemiah 8:11, the Levites calm the people as they’re grieving over their sins, encouraging them to be still as they respond to the reading of the Book of the Law of Moses. While prophesying about the coming Messiah, Zechariah 2:13 calls all mankind to be still before the Lord.

Psalm 37:7 combines the ideas of being still and waiting on the Lord. Waiting on the Lord is encouraged in many of the other Psalms and in the prophets.

Every day I feel like I get more behind on all the things I want or need to do. But there it is, right there in the Bible—slow down, be still, wait. I need to hear this at this time in my life when I’m so eager to move ahead. At this time when my body is screaming at me to slow down.

The challenge

But I don’t want to slow down! I want to plunge forward, to check more and more items off of my to-do list.

Why?

As I’ve said, it’s partly because I want to catch up on the things that I’ve put on a back burner while Mom’s been wasting away. That’s the most obvious reason. And it seems fully justified.

But I think it goes deeper than that. If I slow down I’ll feel the grief. I’ve been grieving for so long, I just want it to be over with. I don’t want to deal with it anymore. I’d rather be fixing things.

I’m a problem solver. I can see all kinds of problems with my house. The dust bunnies under the bed and the grunge on the windows and the minor upgrades and repairs that I’ve been postponing. I see problems with weeds and overgrown plants in my yard. Problems with my mismatched and aging wardrobe.

Now that I have more time, I can fix all those things. Fixing things feels better than being still.

But I need to be still so that I can move ahead. Just like physical healing, emotional healing won’t happen if I’m too busy and active.

Slow down now. Have the strength to do more later. I’ve faced this lesson so many times (including here and here and here), but it’s still hard to rein in my impulse to push on. I guess I’m a slow learner.

The biggest reason for slowing down, though, comes at the end of the song. “Know that He is God.” An echo of Psalm 46:10.

My desire to solve problems, do things, be done with the grieving, to move on, is partly my desire to be my own god. To take charge of the situation. To do the things I want to do, in my way and in my timing. To see my will being done.

When I slow down, I have to listen, contemplate, and consider, not just act. Listen to what the Bible says. Listen to wise pastors and teachers. Listen to the Holy Spirit within me. Contemplate His will, His direction, as it’s revealed in His Word, through other Christians, and in my own heart. Consider the fact that many of my to-do’s are trivial in God’s eyes.

I need to slow down so that I’ll stop trying to be God.

 

 

 

Fearful and Troubled

Israel’s fear

Joshua 8:1: “Then the Lord said to Joshua, ‘Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.’”

Of course Joshua and his fellow Israelites are afraid! Of course they’re discouraged! Look what just happened to them.

In chapter 6, they were cruising along, miraculously crossing the Jordan River on dry ground and destroying the walls of Jericho simply by marching around the city, blowing trumpets, and shouting. God was with them. They could see His hand at work. After forty years of wandering in the wilderness, He was beginning to fulfill His promise to give them a land of their own. What could be more exciting?

Following the easy victory at Jericho, they headed out for the second battle in this new territory, fighting the city of Ai. They were so passionate. So confident of God’s presence and their own strength that they limited the number of warriors they sent into the battle.

“But they were routed by the men of Ai.”

They never had a chance.

“At this the hearts of the people melted and became like water.”

Even Joshua was shaken. He questioned whether they should have crossed the Jordan. He feared that the Canaanites would hear about it and “wipe out our name from the earth.” They were understandably afraid of their enemies.

The Lord revealed to them that the cause of their disaster was sin. One single man out of the entire population had defied God’s direct order. Because of one man’s disobedience, approximately thirty-six men were killed in the battle with Ai, all of the Israelites were put to shame, and the man and his children were executed.

Who wouldn’t be afraid of God after witnessing His judgment? Who wouldn’t be discouraged as they looked at their own sinful hearts and realized that they could be next?

And yet He comes to Joshua and clearly says, “Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.” Under these circumstances, I have to think that this isn’t a command (in the sense of demanding instant repentance and obedience) so much as a word of encouragement.

Could anyone honestly command someone not to be afraid after he’s just faced terrifying actions from both men and God? Could anyone expect that person to respond to that command by straightening his spine and banishing all his fears without another drop of anxiety seeping in? Surely God knows us better than that.

The disciples’ troubled hearts

It reminds me of Jesus saying to His disciples in John 14:1, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” What had happened in the days and hours before He spoke these words?

Jesus had predicted His death by crucifixion and told them about the frightening time of judgment to come (Matthew 24, 26:1-2). Impending danger from both man and God.

In John 13, He prophesied that He’d be betrayed by one of them. That He’d be going away and they wouldn’t be able to go with Him. That Peter would disown Him three times before the rooster crowed in the morning.

Who wouldn’t be troubled? Yes, He’d also provided some comforting words and actions (like washing their feet to express the depth of His love for them), but if the disciples were like me, the scary stuff would make a deeper impression than the comforting stuff.

And yet He says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.”As if they could really do that. As in Joshua, I can’t see this as a command. It sounds more like an attempt to strengthen His friends in preparation for the most difficult challenge of their lives. To turn their focus from their fears to His promises and His character so that they would, in time, be able to overcome their troubled hearts.

God knows

When God tells me not to be afraid, I often feel like my fear is fully justified. Terrible, frightening things are happening. Doesn’t He understand that? How can He expect me to just let go of my fears and move ahead as if nothing was wrong?

But, as with the Israelites in Joshua’s day and the disciples shortly before Jesus’ arrest and crucifixion, the Lord often comes to me (through His Word, through worshipping at church, through other people, through His Holy Spirit) not to sternly rebuke me for my fears, but to strengthen me by comforting and encouraging me.

What does He base this on? Surely He can’t expect me to just pretend all’s right with the world and the threats don’t really exist.

In both the Old and New Testament passages, God based it on the fact that He knew what was coming. His hearers didn’t. Neither do I.

He knew that the Israelites would defeat their enemy the next time around. He knew that Jesus would be resurrected from the dead on the third day.

After the Lord encourages Joshua not to be afraid or discouraged, He says that He’s given Ai into their hands. Past tense. He provides them with the strategy for doing it (using the whole army, not just a few thousand, and setting an ambush). Israel experiences a decisive victory.

The events that occur after Jesus’ conversation with His disciples are even more spectacular than the victory over Ai. He’s betrayed by Judas (one of the chosen twelve) and arrested in front of an angry mob. His disciples scatter in fear.

He faces multiple trials, beating, mocking, a crown of thorns, and the death penalty. Isaiah says His appearance was “disfigured beyond that of any man and his form marred beyond human likeness” (Isaiah 52:14).

He’s taken to Golgotha, where He’s brutally crucified along with two criminals. He cries out to His God, who’s forsaken Him. He dies. His body is laid in a tomb. How much worse could it get? How could any of His followers not be shocked and terrified?

But then, just as God knew would happen, just as Jesus had told them would happen, the whole reason the Son could say to them, “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” the most unexpected and amazing thing happens. Jesus rises from the dead.

It was too unbelievable for the disciples to understand Him when Jesus predicted it beforehand (e.g. Matthew 16:21-23). It was too unbelievable for even His closest followers to accept someone else’s word for it (Mark 16:9-12, Luke 24:9-27, John 20:24-25). It’s the greatest, most spectacular, most unbelievable event in the history of the world.

And God knew it was coming. That’s why Jesus could reassure His disciples that they didn’t need to be troubled. Nearly every time He told them about His coming death, He also promised them that He would rise from the dead.

My hope

When I’m fearful and troubled, when life hurts, when scary things are happening, I have the same reassurance that Israel and the disciples had. God knows my future.

It might involve additional suffering. The scary circumstances won’t necessarily just miraculously go away (although they sometimes do). Jesus’ followers went through an intensely painful time before experiencing the unexpected, overflowing joy of the resurrection.

As the years passed, many of them were imprisoned and tortured and killed because of their faith in Him. He doesn’t promise me a life of ease.

But God knows my future. He knows that my future, in this life, includes intimate fellowship with Him and with other believers, joy and wonder at the works of His hands, and the fruit of the Spirit growing inside me.

He knows that my future, in the next life, includes the overwhelming, unimaginable joy and love and peace and glory of being with Him. It includes being completely separated from sin and all its painful consequences. Forever and ever.

Jesus has defeated death. I think He can probably see me through even the most frightening and troubling days ahead.

I don’t always find it easy to trust Him to do that. But I can look at the many examples in His Word and imagine His voice saying, “Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged,” and, “Do not let your heart be troubled.” I can know that He knows my future, just as surely as He knew Israel’s and the disciples’ futures. I can learn to trust Him a little bit more.

 

 

 

Words

A painful loss

Opening the email app in my phone one morning. Kind of in a hurry. Skipping over the promotions and the daily news feeds. Spotting a note from my church. These don’t come often, so it must be important. Reading it.

“Francine died today.”

Crashing. Aching. Burning. Crying.

No, God, no. No, no, no. Not Francine. No. This can’t be. The pain is too great.

I’m not hurting for myself. I barely knew Francine. I’m grieving for her two children, both in their early twenties, one with special needs. Her mom was her advocate.

Francine’s husband just died three months ago. In their fifties, without any life-threatening health issues that they were aware of, both losses were unexpected.

How can their daughters possibly cope with their deaths? How can they possibly live with the trauma?

Trying to pray

I’ve never met the two of them. It sounds like they have plenty of support. Trying to contact them might be more intrusive than helpful.

The best thing I can do is to lift them up in prayer. But how do I pray? My words feel too shallow, too sterile. Like giving God a to-do list. Words seem too small to cover the enormous breadth and depth of their heartbreak and shock.

The news affects me physically, not just in the intellectual and emotional realm of words. I cry. My stomach tightens up. My breathing becomes sighing. I need something more than mere words to pray with.

But I don’t have anything more. Words are the highest form of expression that God’s provided for us. How do I go beyond that?

For the next few days, I use whatever words I can in my prayers for these two dear young people. Although I don’t do it to be selfish, it also helps me. It’s a good outlet for my own grief and horror and anger. I need to bring my emotions to God, rather than letting them come between us.

Today, as I try once again to pray, and once again feel helpless in finding the words to express my greatest concerns and desires for Francine’s daughters, I feel a certain freedom to forget the search for words and simply sit before God with an open heart. Could there be anything wrong with that?

Maybe.

The importance of words

There’s a danger in praying without words. The threat of laziness. Especially in a lazy culture where we’re always looking for shortcuts and conveniences rather than depth and meaning. Avoiding words lets me avoid the struggle.

If I don’t have to struggle to find words, then I don’t have to struggle to understand and come to terms with the tragedy that’s hit these two young women. I don’t have to struggle to deal with and work through my anger and confusion. I don’t have to struggle to understand how God can be present in this situation. Without words, prayer can become a time to just sit and wallow in my feelings, in my self, rather than turning to God.

My friend Kyle, who was one of the best pray-ers I’ve ever known, once asked me if I thought it was possible to pray without words. (Posing the question, as usual, before even hinting at his opinion. And, as usual, I responded without stopping to ask or wonder what his opinion might be.) I immediately said yes, but it should be rare so it doesn’t become a cop-out.

Because of the dangers and pitfalls that can occur, Kyle stated very strongly that we should never attempt to pray without words. Such an exercise couldn’t even be labeled prayer.

In response, I cited my first depressive episode. There were times when I was completely mentally unable to string two words together. But I needed to pray. And I did. Without words. And somehow I knew that God heard me.

God sees into the depths our hearts. Even when we do use words, they’re not enough to convey the fullness of our experiences. They’re so inadequate that we need the support of the Son and the Holy Spirit, as they pray to the Father for us (Romans 8:26 and 34). Our words are so inadequate that the Holy Spirit “intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.”

And yet the Bible is full of prayers written out in words. The Psalms contain many examples of working-through prayers. They start out in anguish or fear or anger. But as the prayer continues, it becomes praise to God for who He is and what He’s done. Without the words used in the early part of the psalm, could the writer ever reach the joy or comfort expressed at the end?

Some might argue that using words can be just as shallow as praying without them, and I would agree. Repeating the same phrases without thinking. Simply saying, “Lord, I pray for John,” without mentioning what John needs.

I once sat in a Bible study where the leader asked for prayer requests. We brought up some very specific concerns. Instead of laying each of them before the throne of God, the leader just went down the list name by name, and asked for His will to be done in that person’s life. It felt so empty.

These types of prayers cater to our laziness as much as praying without words does. Words need to be backed by thoughtful awareness, and sometimes even struggles. They need to be spoken (if only in our heads) with the recognition that we are in the presence of the almighty God, the creator of all that exists, the One who is above and beyond all that we can comprehend. A big God who expects and encourages us to go deeper and higher in our communication with Him.

Words are important to God. He created all that exists through words (Genesis 1). The Bible is called His Word (e.g. Matthew 15:6). In John chapter one, Jesus Himself is referred to as the Word. Words aren’t just a human construct that we can dispense with or rise above in our prayers. They relate very intimately to the triune God.

Praying

And so I usually make every effort to put my prayers into words. Sometimes it takes a very great effort. But, as with the psalmist moving from anger and depression and disappointment to joy and praise, it’s well worth the work.

Right now, in this moment, though, I don’t know how to express all the anguish and fear that I feel for Francine’s daughters.

Right now, while the wound is so fresh, I sense that it’s okay to spend a bit of time simply praying without words, letting my grief for those two young people touch the heart of God and leaving the rest up to Him.

Later, I’ll return to the struggle to find the words, because that’s the example God gives us in His Word. But I’ll also trust Jesus and the Holy Spirit to pray more deeply and effectively than anything my puny words can express.

 

 

Medical Care

 Hope or no hope

About twenty years ago Alan, a middle-aged brother in Christ, was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. From what I saw and heard, it appeared to be a time of great hope in the field of oncology. New treatments were being developed and approved. People were living longer with conditions that would have been deemed fatal just a few years earlier.

Alan’s oncologist told him that forty percent of patients responded well to the new chemotherapy regimens. That didn’t sound like a very high number to me, but it was certainly better than the old zero percent five-year survival rate.

Alan was determined to do all he could to beat the dreaded disease. Chemotherapy extended his life by three years. Without the new treatments, he would have died within six months. He was thankful for that additional time.

A few years ago Henry, an acquaintance from church who had recently retired, was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. I don’t know if it was the same kind as Alan’s, but it couldn’t have been any worse.

Time had passed. The fever of hope that had prevailed during Alan’s chemo days had cooled off. I’m not sure exactly what happened. Maybe that forty percent who initially responded so well died within five years after all, like Alan did.

Henry was told right from the start that his cancer was terminal. Treatment has extended his life about a year beyond his original prognosis, but he’s now on hospice.

The impact

Whose shoes would you rather be in, Alan’s or Henry’s? I had enough contact with Alan and his family during his treatment to see the impact that the sense of hope, the idea that he could maybe beat his cancer, gave them all. They lived each day looking forward to the possibilities of the future.

They weren’t in denial. They’d been advised by his oncologist to be realistic (he might die) but hopeful (he might live). As far as I could tell, they were applying that philosophy.

Alan didn't have an easy time of it during his last three years. He hit many bumps in the road. But I’ve heard that cancer patients who have a positive attitude respond better to treatment and live longer. Did Alan’s hope contribute to the length and quality of his life? It appeared to. Is Henry’s lack of long-term hope shortening his life and diminishing its quality? I don’t know.

Fleming Rutledge, writes in Advent: The Once and Future Coming of Jesus Christ, “A prisoner who knows he will be freed is a very different person from one who knows he will never get out. . . . If you know that your chemotherapy really might heal you, you can tolerate it a lot better than if it is just a last, desperate measure.”

Best practices?

I’m glad I’m not an oncologist. I’m not sure how I’d handle my stage IV patients. I know I’d want to be honest. That’s God’s will for us as His followers. But would I be tempted to offer hope even where there was none in order to give my patients a better life? Would I be capable of using that dreaded word “terminal,” knowing what the psychological impact could be?

From what I’ve heard, in the old old days doctors didn’t tell a patient that she was dying. The family would be informed, but not the victim. It was considered more humane. I wouldn’t want to go back to those times because of the deceit involved, but I wonder if there was a certain amount of wisdom behind that philosophy. A gentleness. A compassion.

Of course, a Christian facing a terminal diagnosis knows that death isn’t the end of the journey. He has hope even in the face of a fatal disease.

My heart, my gut wants to vote for the option of giving patients something to cling to. To campaign for doctors to be more like Alan’s than Henry’s. I want to see cancer sufferers being offered a chance to be upbeat, to live happier lives, to contribute to their own well-being.

I’ve known people who’ve miraculously survived a terminal diagnosis. Is it really right or best to tell someone that they have no future at all? Despite the statistics, do we really know who will live and who will die?

The spiritual impact

The other side of the coin: As a Christian, I can see the potential spiritual benefits of telling a person that he won’t survive an illness. We live in a death-denying culture. Few of us are willing or able to face our mortality head-on. A life-insurance ad on TV presents a spoof on this attitude. The narrator addresses those whose loved ones are going to die, because the viewer knows that that will never happen to him.

But when that terminal diagnosis comes, it’s a little harder to play pretend. Maybe some of those patients will turn their thinking toward eternity. Toward God. Toward heaven and hell. Maybe some of those souls will be saved before it’s too late.

My heart cries out to give cancer patients a little ray of hope, as Alan’s oncologist did. But my head realizes that the current practice is probably for the best.

What triggered all this internal wrestling? The shock and awkwardness of facing Henry’s wife as she told me what his doctor had said at the time of his initial diagnosis. I didn’t know how to respond.

I don’t know if it’s a specifically American thing or a general human thing, but most of us want to be able to offer words of hope and encouragement to someone facing difficult news: Look on the bright side. It might not be as bad as you think. Everything will be okay.

We have a hard time simply weeping with those who weep. Sharing their pain instead of trying to fix it.

I pray for the doctors who are dealing with these life-and-death situations every day. For their expertise. For the courage to speak difficult words to their patients. For compassion and mercy and wisdom. In the end, those attributes might be more important than whether or not they actually use the word “terminal.”

 

 

(This article was edited by the author on February 10, 2026.) 

 

 

Final Lessons From Charlie

Saying goodbye to the best dog in the world

I saw the signs. I knew it wouldn’t be long. But I kept thinking, “As long as he’s happy. . .” I was wrong.

Of course he acted happy. That’s what dogs do. It’s an instinct that they can’t resist. When they were in the wild, they had to hide their weaknesses and put on a show of strength. Otherwise they’d be attacked by predators.

Pretend to be happy. Pretend everything’s okay. Even when the pain is almost unbearable.

Poor Charlie.

Maybe I just wasn’t ready to let go of the best dog in the world. The one who trusted me more than I trust God. The one who, unlike any other dog that I'd ever known, loved people more than he loved food.

So I let him suffer for too long.

I knew he had an uncontrollable, inoperable growth. But even as it continued to expand, it didn’t seem to bother him. He didn’t seem to know that it was there.

In the last few weeks, though, Charlie had begun showing signs that something had changed: Eating a little less eagerly. Occasionally acting restless. Straying from his usual routines. Failing to come to me in the evening, when he knew he could get some extra attention. At other times, appearing more needy, seeking more strokes. Lying out in the sun more often. He’d learned from his achy joints that heat could reduce pain.

I should have recognized what was happening.

It wasn’t until late one afternoon, when I took a closer look at his growth, that I could see clear indications of how very much it was hurting him. Poor Charlie.

My heart broke. Partly because I knew the time had come when I’d have to say goodbye. But even more because I’d allowed this dog that I loved so much to suffer needlessly.

It was too late to contact the doctor that day. And I needed to process my next steps, to be certain that there was only one way to relieve his pain.

The next morning I called the vet’s office as soon as it opened and made one last appointment for Charlie. I sat by his side as he fell asleep and as the overdose of anesthetic was administered. I said my last farewell with tears in my eyes.

How do they do it? How do dogs put on such a good show of being strong and happy even when they’re in agony? Don’t they realize that it only makes their suffering worse?

Hiding our pain

And yet we humans often do the same thing. Pretend to be happy. Pretend everything’s okay. Even when the pain is almost unbearable.

Not so much with physical achiness. In that case, we rush to the medicine cabinet or to the doctor. But we do it with emotional suffering.

“Don't cry out loud. Just keep it inside, learn how to hide your feelings.” (From “Don’t Cry Out Loud.” Lyrics by Carole Bayer Sager, 1976.)

“I am a rock. I am an island. And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.” (From “I Am a Rock,” by Paul Simon, 1965.)

“In order to shield my pride, I’ve tried to cover this hurt with a show of gladness.” (From “The Tears of a Clown.” Lyrics by Smokey Robinson, 1967.)

Songs from my youth voicing our human tendency to hide our pain and weakness. To imagine that remaining aloof from others and maintaining our pride will feel better than taking the risk of being hurt. Why don’t we realize that it only makes our suffering worse?

We’re not dogs. We’re not compelled by instinct to pretend that we’re strong, that all is well. Yes, there are predators out there who will try to take advantage of us in our weakness. But there are also sources of comfort and strength. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matthew 5:4, italics added). “God . . . comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NLT, italics added).

Unlike dogs, we’ve learned as a species that we grow stronger emotionally and spiritually by facing our pain, revealing it to trusted friends, and allowing them to minister to us in our time of need. Why is it so hard to do that?

Seeing others’ pain

One reason I didn’t understand how much Charlie was hurting was because I didn’t try to look closely enough to see for myself how bad it had gotten. I was willing to take him at face value.

How often do we as Christians treat our fellow sufferers the same way? How often do we simply accept the show they put on instead of trying to peer beneath the surface? How much anguish could we address and relieve if we just took the time to look at the signs and reach out to them?

As with Charlie, the signs are usually there. A lack of appetite. Increased restlessness. Changes in routines or habits. Withdrawing from others. Acting more needy. Self-medicating.

Are we willing to see them?

Once I realized what was happening to Charlie, my next steps were obvious and straightforward. That doesn’t tend to be the case with human beings. Our emotional struggles are more complicated than a dog’s physical pain. Trying to be there for someone who’s hurting inside can get messy.

But if it’s done with prayer and compassion, desiring what’s best for the sufferer, being in tune to their needs and to the Holy Spirit’s leading rather than forcing our own agenda on them—and apologizing and learning from our mistakes when we fail—God can use us to help relieve their pain.

This isn’t optional. It’s what Jesus did when He walked this earth. It’s part of our calling as His followers. Part of His plan to heal those who are hurting.