Shared Grief - Make it Make Sense

“Then God said, ‘Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky, over the livestock and all the wild animals, and over all the creatures that move along the ground.’” (Genesis 1:26, NIV)

“Listen closely to my prayer, O LORD; hear my urgent cry. I will call to you whenever I’m in trouble, and you will answer me. No pagan god is like you, O LORD. None can do what you do!” (Psalm 86:6-8, NLT)

The ‘Domebuster’ blizzard in Minneapolis was one for the record books. It started on a Friday night and dumped heavy snow for twenty-four straight hours—seventeen inches in total across downtown. The city shut down, the airport closed, and the football stadium dome collapsed in on itself.

I watched it all from the window of the Children’s Oncology floor. As the snow piled high and traffic crawled, Christmas lights twinkled on trees outside, their beauty oddly set against the struggle of people digging out their cars. Inside, all was calm for my daughter, Clara.

She was six years old, recovering from extensive surgery to remove her tumor-encased kidney. The procedure had been complex because her tumor had ruptured—and the doctors were giving her body time to heal before beginning the grueling rounds of radiation and chemotherapy. Our days were slow and quiet, filled with cable television (a novelty for our family), coloring books, Barbie movies, and music.

Sometimes, when Clara napped, I wandered the halls. From the windows, the snow looked magical, but the atmosphere on our floor was anything but. The oncology ward carried its own gravity—heavy and sad. Teens walked the halls connected to IV poles, bald with faces puffy from steroids, their mothers trailing close behind. Toddlers rode in special wagons designed to hold their IV bags, eyes glazed and tired. The soundtrack was a mixture of beeping monitors, coughing, shuffling footsteps, and squeaky wheels.

And yet, the nurses cut through the heaviness with cheer. They teased the teens, coaxed smiles from the littlest ones, and moved with a steadiness that made you believe they could steer any ship through the roughest sea.

Even with their courage, the children’s oncology floor overwhelmed me. The most vulnerable humans battling an invisible enemy, surrounded by every tool of modern medicine, suffering deeply. My heart broke. Turning back to the snow falling beyond the window, I whispered, “Make it make sense, God. This is awful.”

Ten months later, when Clara returned to school with NED—“no evidence of disease”—I remembered that stormy evening. My Domebuster night had been more than a snowstorm; it was my dark night of the soul. As I prayed and meditated on that memory, something in my soul shifted. I realized God was not indifferent; He was present. He grieved too—over the frightened children, the exhausted parents, the brutal side effects.

As I prayed, I felt Him nod. Yes, it was awful. No, it was not right.

Underneath my question “make it make sense,” I had been pointing to the brokenness as if it was the intended state of things. As if God had somehow designed cancer. God gently spoke to my heart and reminded me that it just won’t make sense because we aren’t living in the world as God designed it to run. We are living in a broken world.

Yes, He grieves because sickness and death are grievous. But I believe He also grieves because it is not how He put the world together. From the beginning, cells were created for useful purposes, not destruction. Death and disease were never part of the design. What I saw in a Children’s Oncology ward was evidence of brokenness, not wholeness.

And in that recognition, my cry changed. I switched my posture from pounding at the floor of the throne room for answers to kneeling at His feet, weeping alongside the King.

God knows our sorrows. While we’re living in this brokenness we’re invited to see the bigger picture – this broken world was not the design, and God longs for the restoration even more than we do. As we grieve alongside God, He gives us His comfort and His goodness in the land of the living.

Reflection: In this messy reality of life we live, it often seems that seasons of deep grief form our understanding of God. When we allow God full access to our pain and the dissonant pieces of our lives, we are inviting to heal every nook and cranny. If we minimize our pain (it’s not that bad), we will also minimize the miracle God’s comfort provides. Give yourself permission to fully grieve the brokenness around you and invite God into that grief with you. He longs to comfort you (Psalm 34:18).