I Am Not Abandoned

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.

—Joshua 1:9

I woke up early that Friday morning without the faintest clue of what the day would hold.

July 20, 2012.

I flipped on the news, as I often do. Then, scenes of Aurora, Colorado’s Century 16 movie theater. Dozens of police cars and news crews, and word of dozens of people injured by the gunfire of a deranged killer. Many still unaccounted for.

Just that fast, horrific reality settled into a previously ordinary Friday like cement in my stomach.

Why? Oh, God, why?

Even then, even as I watched the news like a spectator, I didn’t know that later that day I’d end up at Gateway High School, the gathering place for family members awaiting word of survivors. I didn’t know I’d sit with a friend for eight hours as she waited for news of her son. Didn’t know that later that night we’d receive confirmation of his death, even as nine other families learned of the deaths of their loved ones. Didn’t know that over the course of a weekend, I would witness a depth of grief that made my own bones ache in agony.

I did not lose a son or a spouse that day. But I lost a hefty chunk of my innocence. Twelve people gone in a moment, in a horrific way. For four days, I walked through the nightmare with my friend. I experienced the agonizing wait while families counted the minutes until they received feared news of a son, daughter, boyfriend, girlfriend, mom, dad. I watched shoulders shake and bodies crumble under the weight of devastation. I heard groans carrying enough lament to split the sky. Even as I write, I know I will never forget the wails or faces of those who grieved.

As vivid as those images and sounds were, a scene shining like a light in the dark is what I saw when I first stepped inside Gateway High School that Friday afternoon: twelve round tables circled by the weeping. And centered on each table like a bastion, a copy of the New King James Holy Bible.

I noticed the Bibles right away, at first surprised that “God” had somehow been allowed admittance. Then I felt calmed, knowing God Himself had infiltrated the terror and torment of that room with His presence long before I did. I reached for one of the thick black-covered books, caressed the cover and pulled it close. I needed God’s presence more than air.

I still do. The older I get, the more terrifying this life can be. In the past fifteen years, we’ve endured the Indian Ocean tsunami, the Sandy Hook school shooting, the Boston Marathon bombing, the Nepal earthquake, the Paris terrorist attacks. To name a few. Not to mention hurricanes. Recessions. Human trafficking. Homicides. Accidents. Disease. Wildfires. Suicides.

These dramas are not a collection of two-hour action-packed movies from which I can exit the theater and reenter a happier life.

This is real. Drama in shocking proximity. The truth of this should shake us all by the shoulders.

What if the worst happens?

It’s a fair question, a real possibility.

When a large-scale tragedy, or threat of it, shakes the world, people often respond one of two ways: they turn away from God or toward Him. The first believes the tragedy strikes as a result of God’s absence or abandonment. How could a good God allow this to happen? The second believes God is the only refuge and answer for a world gone awry.

“And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age,” Jesus said (Matt. 28:20). Words of comfort and strength to a world filled with people who needed to know they wouldn’t be left on their own.

He’s unruffled by the news, even if we aren’t. Because He holds all things in His hands, including us. No matter how violently the earth shakes, He remains steadfast. That means we are not abandoned. No matter how bad it gets.

I have no answers for why bad things happen, no platitudes or easy retorts.

But this I know: whether or not we acknowledge Him, God is with us. His nearness is as tangible and sure as twelve black Bibles on twelve round tables. Our doubts and questions don’t diminish His reality. He is the bedrock below our ever-shifting circumstantial sand. Someone who sees all, knows all, and promises it will be okay. Even better, someone who will be with us even when the worst happens.

There will be a reckoning, a day when a real God carries through on His promise: “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.” Rather than say it with a whisper, He will command it with a shout: “No more! No more!”

With the lament of a grieving Father, He will right all wrongs. How bleeding hearts long for that day! Until then, we wait. We cry. We live and lose, wail and pray. And we circle our chairs, alternately grieving and comforting each other, with this truth our unwavering bastion: rest assured, we are not abandoned. God will never walk away. He is with us, to the end of time.

As a child may cry out in pain even when sheltered in its mother’s arms, so a Christian may sometimes know what it is to suffer even in the conscious presence of God . . . But all will be well. In a world like this tears have their therapeutic effects. The healing balm distilled from the garments of the enfolding Presence cures our ills before they become fatal. The knowledge that we are never alone calms the troubled sea of our lives and speaks peace to our souls.

—A. W. TOZER, THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE HOLY