I am sharing words from the heart of a friend today. Please feel free to share with us.
It’s almost midnight and he just left. I should be sleeping, alone, but instead I am here at my computer with my questions. God has heard them before, but I ask again:
Why, God, would you do some miracles for this woman, and then just… not?
I ache for the family suffering out there, where pastor-daddy is. (Care for them, Father.) I ache for the family here, too, where pastor-daddy is not. I was the one who read the bedtime stories, said the prayers, and tucked the covered tightly around the children. They nodded brave faces when I told them that daddy had to go “be with the sad family” yet again. That’s why our plans changed tonight.
Yes, I know he has been gone a lot lately. I miss him, too.
I respect and support this man, and the work God does through him, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t hard.
The children do not understand why dark hospital rooms win out over family nights, but for a pastor, they do, they must. I spare them the details of the sad situation he faces in the hospital.
They say goodnights without complaint, except for one boy. He cries quietly into his pillow. When I lean over to kiss him, he clings tightly to my robe, and I hear his muffled confession, “Mommy, I wish that daddy was something other than a pastor.”
Father, what am I to say to this child?
You have promised to be with us always, even in times of suffering. Help your child, the one who is called to be a pastor to the sad family, because I can see the weariness in his eyes, and I cannot help him. Uphold him, Father.
And help your child’s other children, the little ones who share in the suffering through tiny sacrifices, the little ones who do not understand. Care for them through other hands when daddy is away– through mine, through your Word, through your other children. Care for their little hearts, that they may learn to lean on you in times of trial.
The needs here are more than I can meet, Father.
Care for them, Father
Care for all of us.