When cancer shows up, nobody had it circled on the calendar. When the person you love walks out, or the friend you trusted betrays you in quiet, devastating ways — no one rehearsed that scene. Failing the exam you studied for, dropping the ball at work, drowning in a schedule that feels engineered to break you: almost everything that hurts the most arrives uninvited and overstays its welcome. In those seasons, which sometimes feel like they last a lifetime, we live with the echo of the life we thought we’d have — the life we hoped would be.

You know, the one that made sense. The one that felt fair. It sits beside us, whispering what might have been while we try to breathe through what is.

There’s a man who goes home alone every night. He thought he’d be married by now. There’s a woman whose arms ache with the weight of children who never made it from her womb to her chest. There is a little boy who still checks the driveway at dusk, constantly wondering: When is daddy coming home? The freshman in high school is debating whether his life has any purpose — especially when the bullies won’t let up and no friends come to comfort him. So many image-bearers of God, carrying so much sorrow, feeling so unseen. Even in my own life, I’ve knelt on a bedroom floor at 2 a.m. and demanded of heaven, Why, Lord? Why this? Why now? Why me?

So, listen closely: I will never scold you for grieving. I will never tell you your tears are faithless or your questions sinful. Loneliness is real. Grief is brutal. Pain can feel like a living creature with its own heartbeat inside your chest. You are not weak for feeling crushed. You are not a failure for wondering where God is. But I need you to hear the rest of the story, the part that outlives every nightmare: Your suffering does not get the final word.

Pastor John Piper put it best: “Occasionally, weep deeply over the life you hoped would be. Grieve the losses. Then wash your face. Trust God. And embrace the life you have.” Here, Piper gives us a helpful framework to navigate the complexities of life. As believers, we have an advantage over everyone else in the world: we have hope — eternal and sure. Not because we’re better than anyone else. Not because we deserve it. But because Christ is gracious and merciful, and “if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us” (1 John 1:9). In Him, we have life, meaning, joy, and hope. Indeed, everything we have in Christ is beautiful and necessary, but when we are barely hanging on, when we feel inches away from rock bottom, oh how we need hope.

Hope that God will be with us in the valley and sustain us all the way to the mountain top. Hope that sin and death truly have been defeated. Hope that one day, we will be with our Creator, face-to-face, free from all pain, sickness, and suffering. Hope that the pain we do endure has purpose. Hope that weeping does only last for the night, and that joy really does come in the morning.

The Apostle Paul, a man intimately acquainted with grief, mapped it out for us: “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:8-9). He never claims we are untouched. He claims we are touched on every side — yet still held. The crushing pressure is proof that something indestructible lives inside these fragile “jars of clay.”

So, Paul states, “we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.” When you suffer, dear reader, look up. Look to Him who holds it all — who holds you.

You may be lonely, grieving the death of someone you deeply love, or terrified of what tomorrow brings. Wherever you are, allow yourself the time to grieve. Jesus wept, so we can too. If you feel you can’t handle the pressure, know that He can. So, yes, feel it all, and then lay it down at the foot of the cross. Wrestle with the pain and then remember what Jesus said: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” (Matthew 5:4).

The same hands that were pierced for every betrayal you have endured are the ones writing the final chapter. And in that chapter, every grave becomes a garden, every tear is returned with compound interest, and every unanswered “Why?” is silenced by a face you will recognize instantly — the face that was marred beyond human likeness so that yours could be made radiantly whole. The God who let the tears fall is the same God who will one day wipe them away forever. And until then, He is not embarrassed by your trembling hands. He is near to the brokenhearted.

The life you have — the real one, the bruised one, the one you never circled on the calendar — is a life He refuses to waste. You are not alone. Your story is not over. Remember who holds the pen: a perfect Savior, Friend, and Father. He’s written the beginning, the middle, and the end of your life story. And that ending, that light at the end of the tunnel, has been written by scarred hands that know exactly what betrayal and agony feel like. He understands your aching, and He has promised you life — abundant life — if you just keep running to Him. So, hold on.

Weep, wash, embrace. Morning is coming.