Pray what?

I stood just a few feet away, watching her cry. I held my hands behind my back, nervous and feeling incredibly awkward. What do you say to someone who is about to lose everything? How do you comfort someone who has already seen the poignant face of death, and is now being called to rise in its honor once again? Life is so absurdly short, I thought. Barely a vapor in the wind.

I picked up on some of the conversation in front of me, and it sounded like preaching. Not now, I thought with frustration. Now is not the time to discuss ways to cope with grief, or the surest method to understanding tragedy that God allows. My palms began to sweat with anger. Back off, I mumbled under my breath. Maybe there is not a reason. Maybe we cannot grasp it in our finite minds here on earth. Maybe sometimes life just hurts.

And now is a time to cry. For every day that was lost, for every laugh that was never shared, for each moment wasted. For the plans, dreams and futures that are dissolved in front of our eyes. For the mistakes that cause pain and the conflict that creates walls. For the sadness that wells up deep inside when we think about how much we will miss them. Clinging to a hope of a “someday” reunion in the white clouds seems a lifetime away when you are standing together under the rain, holding their hand and pleading with them not to leave.

I stuttered my words of comfort, feebly gave an embrace and then walked away. My efforts of consolation felt so incredibly inadequate. I walked outside into a warm, muggy day. The overcast sky was cooperating with the sense of depression that settled over my soul. Another one was leaving. Another casket would be chosen. Another memorial service planned. Another few months spent counting down the days left until sickness claimed his life. Why, God?

And these were the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. They were strong Christians, leaders in the church, huge investors in the kingdom of God. Serious about their faith, fervent in their desire for God. One failure after another had sent them to their knees. But they had catapulted over the hurdles, holding onto Jesus. Believing in a plan much larger than themselves.

Now the test results had returned: lung cancer, third stage, six months left. He denied it, she crumbled under the weight of it. Their hearts were still relentlessly clinging to Christ, but that didn’t deter me from shaking my fist at God in anger and pathetic weakness.

I could pray. That was my job, my assignment, and the only thing that I could do to help. As if that would even help, my heart whispered. What a responsibility. I could almost hear someone saying in a patronizing voice, “Look, little girl, we want you to go sit in the corner and watch while we take this person’s life, make it a living hell, and then rip it away. Now go pray.”

Pray what, Lord? That you would heal him? Touch his physical body and remove the cancer? Or that you would simply be with him as he slips away? That you would comfort, console, and bring and overwhelming sense of your peace into his and her lives.

But that doesn’t make the hurt go away, Jesus. That doesn’t make me feel any more helpless. And if this is how you treat the best of your children, those who love you with their whole heart, mind, soul and strength, what lies ahead for my life? Hardship, heartache, loneliness? Do I even have the strength to trust you for the future?