There’s so much about this life that just doesn’t make sense.
The suffering, the loss, the injustice—it feels relentless sometimes. The weight of it presses in, especially when I look at what’s been stolen. The dreams cut short. The future that should have unfolded but won’t. The “should haves” and “would haves” play on repeat in my mind: he should have been graduating college this year. He would have one day bought his first house. He should have walked down the aisle, held his first child, celebrated birthdays and holidays and ordinary Tuesdays.
But he won’t. Not here.
And there’s no dressing that up. It’s unfair. It’s brutal. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
We live in a fallen world. I’ve always known that, but now I feel it in my bones. The evidence is written in the empty spaces, the silences where laughter used to be, the ache that follows me into every corner of my day. Scripture tells us that the enemy comes to steal, kill, and destroy—and he does. He steals futures. He breaks hearts. He whispers lies and sows pain into the most sacred places.
And I hate him for it.
It’s with tear-filled eyes I say this: grief is not just sadness. It’s the soul-deep recognition that something precious was taken. And the hardest part is knowing that nothing can undo it here. No matter how many prayers are lifted, how many tears are shed, or how tightly we hold on to memories—this world does not give back what it’s taken.
But this world isn’t all there is.
There is hope. Not the shallow kind that pretends everything is fine, but the anchored kind—the kind that clings to eternity even when everything hurts. The kind that believes the empty grave matters. That everlasting life is real. That there will come a day when every tear is wiped away and every broken thing is made whole again.
I believe I’ll see him again.
And on that day, the pain of all I missed won’t matter. Not the wedding I won’t attend, not the grandbabies I won’t rock, not the milestones he’ll never reach here. I won’t care about any of it—because I’ll be with him. And with Jesus. And everything that was ever wrong will finally, beautifully be made right.
But that doesn’t change the fact that it hurts now. And it will hurt, until then.
That’s the reality of living between the promise and the fulfillment. Between the fall and the restoration. Between heartbreak and healing.
So I hold both. I grieve what was taken. I long for what will never be. And I still believe.
Because even in a world full of sorrow, I know joy is coming. And it will not be stolen.
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