The beauty of Isaiah & the Worry Pack is that it doesn’t dismiss the things kids worry about. Instead, it reminds readers of God’s big love for them, and provides a script to help them entrust their worries to God. Goring’s story, coupled with Pamela C. Rice’s artistic illustrations, remind readers that sleep isn’t the time to fear, but the time to rest.

This weariness is more than physical though. Life is heavy because heaviness constantly weighs down those around us. This is the nature of entangling your life with people whose lives are hard every day – their grief becomes yours.

Name what hurts – to safe people, but most importantly to God. This might feel like a faux pas in a culture that pretends the power of positivity can cure all wrongs. Even in our Christian sub-culture, we become prey to the lie that having faith equates to calling bad things “good.” Though God certainly grows beautiful roses out of the scorched earth of our lives, that doesn’t mean we must pretend the part when we burned to the ground was pleasant.

So if you’re walking alongside someone who has lost someone, understand the value of acknowledging that loss, be it weeks, months, and years down the road. They certainly haven’t forgotten their loved one has died, but hearing that others also remember and miss them is such a gift.

When I cried out for God to show me mercy, to tell me where He is in all of this, you called and eventually knocked on my door. His Body showed up through your hands carrying a 9x13 pan of supper I know I wouldn't have been able to muster the strength to make tonight. 

Christmas is not just an invitation to the broken hearted, beat down, depressed, and mourning to join in the fun that all the merry folk are having. Christmas is for them. Christmas is for those who mourn, who recognize their neediness. It is for those who see and say, “I am broken, and I am hurting, and I am a sinner. Save me.”

God gives us space to mourn this life, space we must take and do the hard work of letting ourselves mourn whatever has broken our hearts and minds and brains. And He also reminds us that in a world where it feels easier to despair, even tempting to think life would be easier if we didn’t have to live it, this life is not all there is.

It’s not about lowering our expectations. It’s about erasing them completely. About replacing them with the highest expectation of all: A baby boy, Jesus. God becoming flesh and making His dwelling among us. The beginning of salvation from our ugliness, brokenness, and darkness. From tears and sadness.

Sometimes I feel more like that now. Like the brightness in my eyes is gone. Like part of that hopeless romantic, naïve, “Happily Ever After” woman died when her daughter died too. Like there’s still plenty of laughter and love and even happiness inside of me, but that their optimism doesn't quite reach all the way up anymore. And that it might not be fixed until Heaven.

Because this whole grief thing is deep. Deep, like getting pushed into the deep end of a pool when you don’t know how to swim. Like thrashing around in the water not knowing which way is up. Like feeling afraid that some days you just might drown in it.

And I wonder how many other people I walked by that day, and the many days since then, who are going through things I have no idea about. Who else is suffering silently as they wade through life in a sea of unsuspecting people? People who have no idea what they are going through? I know how invisible I feel walking through the grocery store, waiting in line at the bank, talking to a complete stranger at the park. I can’t be the only one. I KNOW I’m not the only one.

Thy will be done. This phrase is a challenge for me to let go. A giving up of control. It's an opportunity to recognize that nothing in life is a waste when I let God use it for His purposes. An acceptance that while brokenness and death and pain and sorrow and grief and sadness were never a part of God’s original plan for this world, that His will is to use those things for good. If I am willing to let Him.

We are coming to the part of the story where the rest of the world stops grieving with us. Not our family or our close friends of course, but the world beyond that. This is natural, and it’s okay. But as I slowly come out from under my rock and back into community, there are a few things I want you to know about me.

Since our 20 week ultrasound when we were told our daughter probably wouldn’t live, and since our daughter passed away at 33 weeks along, people have said a lot of things. And since that 20 week appointment, and since the passing of our child, I realized more clearly that I was hurt by the kinds of words that tried to fix our pain. And I was comforted by the kinds of words that simply acknowledged our pain. 

Some have tried to say that losing our child must be worse for me, because I am the mom. But that is not true. My pain is not worse. It’s just different. To every father who has lost a{n unborn} child: your grief is important too. It might be different. It might not be processed or expressed the same as your wife's grief. But your thoughts, your feelings, your timing - they are all valid. They are important too.

I know that someday I might even feel at peace and be grateful for this experience and all that it has taught me. I know that someday things will get better. But why won’t that knowledge numb my pain right now? Why do I still just want to curl up on the floor and weep? Why do I feel so empty? Empty arms. Empty womb. Empty heart. Empty pit in my stomach. Hold me, Jesus. And while you’re at it, please hold our precious daughter Aliza for me too. Your precious daughter, Aliza.

Lord, this is my act of worship: The satisfying, the joy-filled, the precious, The messy, the frustrating, the chaos, Both the worst and the best, This is my act of worship.

It's not that I think you need random pity from a random stranger such as myself, but I do think that sometimes it helps when recognition is given to how tough the valley can be to walk through.

And please, let's all continue to teach our children how to deal. Let's whisper into their tiny little ears how much we love them, and how much we wish we could protect them from all the bad things in this world. And most importantly, let's introduce them to the One who will carry them through when life is just too hard to handle.

“Lord, use us. Lord, help our lives bring glory to Your name. Lord, break our hearts for what breaks yours. Continue to teach us the lessons we need to learn that will strengthen our faith. Help us realize that we fully rely on you. Remind us that we are not in control. And Lord, if it brings You glory, don’t lead us down Sesame Street.”

And I hope that in your life, in your circumstances, in your happiness and sadness and laughter and anger and pain and fear and worry, that you will choose joy too. It's not an emotion. It's in spite of emotions. It's not pretending everything's okay when it's not. It's in spite of life running a muck. 

And all we are left with is our faith. No detailed Google Maps directions to tell us where we are going, and how to get there, and exactly how long it will take to arrive. Just a flashlight of faith to illuminate the ground as we take one step at a time.

“I know,” God said to me today, “It’s an uncomfortable place to be. But when you cast your cares on Me, they are My hands and feet. My church will cry out with you, the same sad tears of pain. My people are My gift to you, a gift of comfort in My Name.”

Emmanuel. God with us. No matter our circumstances, He will see us through. No matter what you are going through. No matter how much it hurts. No matter anything. You can ask the Lord: “Are You with me? Are You enough for me? Even if my dreams don't come true? Even if my life doesn't always turn out the way I hoped?” He answers: I Am.