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Night Lights

We were visiting at the kitchen table when my mother shared with me a pattern she’d observed from her own grief experiences and those of others. “When we lose someone we love, there is usually a strong support network for about three months,” she said. “People call, stop by, bring food—and after three months, they think things are better, so they resume life as normal. But things are not OK; we’re still hurting, and now we’re hurting alone.” Mom continued, “I’ve learned to wait three months and then step in to offer help when one’s support is beginning to fade.” The candle of care, lit by others, still flickers soft rays of hope.

It is hard to imagine the darkness of the widow’s anger or the depth of her pain. “Don’t call me Naomi [pleasant],” she said. “Call me Mara [bitter],” because the Almighty has made my life very bitter.”1 Heap more hurt on me. Call me “bitter” whenever you look upon me. Remind me what God has done to me and who He has made me to be—bitter. What can one possibly say to heal invisible wounds of unknown dimensions? Whose words are wise enough? Writes Solomon, “Like one who takes away a garment on a cold day, or like vinegar poured on soda, is one who sings songs to a heavy heart.”2

Consider then the heart and wisdom of Ruth, widowed herself and at a young age. To her grieving mother-in-law, she offered not Band-Aids of bromides, but the kindness of commitment—perhaps the only words Naomi could absorb. “Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried.”3 I am with you. With actions of integrity, then, Ruth provided for the two of them by humble means—“Let me go to the fields and pick up the leftover grain behind anyone in whose eyes I find favor.”4 “Go ahead, my daughter”—Naomi’s heart, healing.

Blessed are those who refuse to let our bitterness and pain overcome us, who reconcile us to hope when we are wary of hope. Awesome are they who sacrifice their life to save ours with a love that transforms us and a grace that sustains us to a new day of renewed purpose. When the time comes, may we, too, be committed to care, bearing another’s burden with the sacrifice of self.

Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. (Galatians 6:2).

Father, thank you so much for those who have sustained me through the darkest moments of life. They are a gift. Grace me to be as faithful when I am called to do the same. Amen.

1 Ruth 1:20
2 Proverbs 25:20
3 Ruth 1:16, 17
4 Ruth 2:2

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The Good in Grief

My son recently asked me, “Why do you work out as much as you do?” “So I can do the things I do at my age,” I replied. Later, the real reason returned to mind—I began a regimen decades ago, determined to spare my family from the bitter agony of loss. My own father had died suddenly and prematurely, leaving his young family emptied of his presence, insecure without his provision, and longing for his love. How could I let my wife and son experience such pain? I would stay fit and ask God for long life.

The Old Testament book of Ruth is a beautiful (and brilliantly written) short story of redemption, the rescue from loss and restoration to fullness at great cost borne by another. Yet the account is every bit as vivid a depiction of inner transformation, in this case that of Naomi, the mother-in-law to Ruth, by way of the painful path that wends through grief. Losing her husband and two sons had rendered Naomi bitter and blaming: “the Almighty has made my life very bitter. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty.”1 We’ve been there ourselves, and we’ve stood beside many Naomi’s in our life, speaking the kind words of silent presence.

Yet in His sovereignty, God commands even death to serve His good purposes for our life, for grief brings us to an unavoidable encounter with real thoughts and deep feelings now exposed before us. We appreciate more fully the unique beauty of those now gone, though frustrated in our inability to proclaim it in their presence. Left behind, we carry the heavy load of unresolved guilt, or we lay it before God in the cleansing power of confession. We find our love was stronger than we had known, and perhaps our hurts deeper. We draw nearer to God in reliance on Him, or we distance ourselves in resentment. And in the clarity of loss, God is there, meeting us wherever we are, eager to embrace, patient to wait, and faithful to heal.

The apostle Paul wrote that “suffering [leads to] perseverance … character … and hope,”2 and it is in the context of suffering that he penned the familiar verse, “in all things God works for the good of those who love him.”3 But these are words more apt for another day. For now, Naomi sobs, she questions; survival is aspiration enough. And though we will not say today what she cannot hear today, we know it to be true—that God is at work in her even now, commanding her pain to work for her good.

Father, there is no sting worse than death; sustain us in our grief. Strengthen us to persevere, command our pain to build our character, and sustain us in the sure and certain hope of eternal life through Jesus Christ, our Lord. In his name, we pray. Amen.

1 Ruth 1:20, 21
2 Romans 5:3, 4
3 Romans 8:28

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The Larger Legacy

Frank Mickes was an inmate at Marion Correctional Institute when Christine Money became its new warden. Until that turning-point, the place was “drug-infested, gang-infested and on the verge of rioting, a bad situation to be in as a young man,” he recalls, now a few decades older and free. But Mrs. Money brought to MCI a new approach from a heart “driven by God,” in Frank’s words. She invited inmates to attend a Kairos Prison Ministries weekend, 42 men at a time, and the population soon began to see change—“a feeling of inner freedom,” is how Frank describes it—in Kairos participants. The new warden also lived out her Christian faith inside the prison, listening, caring, acting and building trust. Over time, MCI became known among Ohio’s incarcerated community as “God’s house.”

Over the past few weeks, we have celebrated a Samaritan woman made new by grace before the compassionate Christ—hope dispelling disillusion, honor replacing shame, joy overcoming pain. Yet her personal change was only the beginning of a larger and lasting legacy, for her story surpasses herself. Made new in the power of grace, she returned to her people in the boldness of freedom: “Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did,” she beckoned, “Could this be the Christ?”1 John narrates their precious response: “They came out of the town and made their way toward him.”2 No dialogue needed, the remarkable scene speaks for itself. “I tell you,” Jesus said to his disciples as they watched, “open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest. Even now the reaper … harvests the crop for eternal life.”3

Does anything demand our notice as much as a life made new? It trumpets a triad of good news in gentle decibels to the soul: Jesus is real; He lives today; there is hope! So it was that the Samaritans of Sychar came and heard for themselves this man who claimed to be the Christ. To the woman they said, “We no longer believe just because of what you said; now we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this man really is the Savior of the world.”4 From one person’s change a community was transformed. Then who knows our impact when we tell of our own encounters with Christ? We may think our testimonies to be ineffective, but the Spirit of God works through them to spread grace, stir hope and speak life all around us. People will be changed, and God will receive the praise. Be willing, be eager; speak, and watch.

Lord God, change us for a purpose—to trumpet new life and glorify you. May people see you in us and come before you to see for themselves. In Jesus’ name. Amen.

1 John 4:29
2 John 4:30
3 John 4:35, 36
4 John 4:42