In 2011, Karey Packard and her daughter were packing boxes for a move to a new home. Suddenly, Karey collapsed, and her heart stopped—the beginning of a long nightmare. Doctors revived Karey, but her condition worsened through the night. Her husband, Craig, was told to call family to say final goodbyes. They prayed what Craig called, “a prayer of desperation.”

How often have we prayed a prayer of desperation in a crisis? Mary and Martha did. They sent a desperate message to Jesus: their brother Lazarus, “the one you love,” was gravely ill (John 11:3). When Jesus finally arrived, Lazarus had been dead for four days. Martha, in anguish, said to Jesus: “If you had been here, my brother would not have died” (v. 11:21). She knew Jesus could heal sick people but could not imagine His power to overcome death. Jesus, of course, raised Lazarus, a foreshadowing of His own resurrection weeks later.

Karey Packard had officially flatlined, yet miraculously God brought her back to life. In the stories of both Karey and Lazarus it’s easy to miss the point: God has purposes that we don’t know. He neither heals everyone nor brings all dead people back to life. But He gives us a transcending assurance: “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die” (v. 25). As believers, whatever happens, we know we’ll be with Jesus. Maybe that makes our desperate prayers a little less desperate.

In the aftermath of Turkey’s devastating earthquake in February 2023, a haunting photo came across newswires: a father sitting amid ruins holding a hand extending from the rubble—the hand of his daughter. We see the edge of the mattress where his daughter had been sleeping, and we see her lifeless fingers that he now holds. His face is grim; his grief is profound.

In this father’s gritted face, I see a semblance of our own heavenly Father. Genesis tells us that God was grieved by the devastation of sin in His creation: “It broke his heart” (6:6 nlt). Isaiah, speaking of the future Messiah, says, “He was . . . a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief” (53:3 nlt). God grieves for us, and with us, and sits at the edge of the rubble of our lives, reaching for us: “I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand” (41:13).

Whatever devastation you currently face—a tragic circumstance, the loss of a dear one, or maybe even the effects of your own sin—know that God grieves with you. Whatever earthquake has shaken your life, see that God is reaching for your hand. Whatever your current sorrow, hear the God of love saying to you, “Do not fear; I will help you” (v. 13).

Fyodor Dostoevsky was facing a firing squad. He quietly counted the last moments of his life. Dostoevsky, a believer in Jesus, is considered one of the greatest writers in all of literature. His monumental novel, The Brothers Karamazov, explored themes about God, life, and death. It was said of Dostoevsky, “He spoke about Christ ecstatically.” The rifles raised. “Ready! . . . Aim . . .”

Jesus, alluding to His own execution, speaks to His disciples and to us of the eternal value of life and death when He said, “The hour has come” (John 12:23). The image is a seed (our life), which produces a great harvest through its own sacrifice (v. 24). Jesus tells us not to love this life too much, for it is those who are willing to sacrifice this present life who will find “eternal life” (v. 25).

These are hard words—we cherish our life on earth. But Jesus is saying that being His disciple requires sacrifice. We’re counseled to hold life loosely, to embrace the joy of the life to come, and to find our hope in His words, “My Father will honor the one who serves me” (v. 26).

Fyodor looked death in the face. But a letter from the Czar was delivered at the last second. A reprieve. Dostoevsky’s life was spared, yet this experience would infuse all of his later works. Indeed, the epigraph of The Brothers Karamazov is this verse, John 12:24: “Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.”

A Danish study explored the phenomenon most of us have experienced: perceiving ourselves as younger than we really are. The findings suggest a constant—whatever our current age, we all see ourselves as 20 percent younger. A fifty-year-old tends to imagine herself as forty years old. (This conjures up a comical scenario in which a child thinks, “Wow, I’m five, but I feel I have the energy and looks of a four-year-old!”)

It doesn’t take a scientific study to state the obvious: we’re all growing older. And Scripture has much to say about this. Isaiah’s words were issued to an Israel that had aged and become weary, but as one commentator says, “This promise to Israel, enfeebled and grown old as a nation, is applicable to every aged follower of Christ.”

The prophet reminds us of God’s provision throughout the life of everyone who has been faithful to Him: “I have upheld [you] since your birth, and have carried [you] since you were born” (Isaiah 46:3).

So as we stew and fret about growing older, we’re reminded that God is still with us. He promises: “Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you” (v. 4). Whatever age you are (or the 20 percent younger you imagine yourself to be!), embrace today God’s promise: “I have made you and I will carry you” (v. 4).

In February 2023, the James Webb Space Telescope made another remarkable discovery. Beyond where humankind had previously been able to peer into the universe, it discovered six new galaxies. This discovery upended much of what we know about space. One astronomer remarked, “It turns out we found something so unexpected it actually creates problems for science.” An astrophysicist said almost apologetically, “There is nothing wrong with not knowing.”

It seems that God continues to surprise us all. The psalmist David, long before the advent of space telescopes, seems to be talking directly to the scientists of today: “Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is . . . the Creator of the ends of the earth” (Isaiah 40:28). He goes on, pre-dating that astrophysicist’s words, “[God’s] understanding no one can fathom” (v. 28).

But if we stop there, we miss the beauty of this passage. He who is unfathomable is not impersonal. He who created those six galaxies, and all the others, is the same God who “gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak” (v. 29). The God of the universe is also the personal God who helps those who hope in Him to “soar on wings like eagles” (vv. 28, 31). Rest assured, the unfathomable God is the One we do know—the One who speaks into our lives with power and strength.

In Sweden there’s a concept known as döstädning. It literally means “death cleaning.” The idea is that as we grow older, we should stop accumulating “stuff” and begin to cut out the clutter we have amassed throughout our lives. “Swedish death cleaning” is actually a gift of love to children and friends, for it simplifies for them the task of wading through what we leave behind.

As believers in Jesus, at a certain age we think about our legacy—what survives us. This is often framed in terms of money, inheritance, or charitable giving—and there’s much to be said for that. But it might be helpful to look at Jesus in His final hours with His disciples: “Where I am going, you cannot follow now, but you will follow later” (John 13:36). In In a brief two verses (vv. 34-35), He uses the word love four times—His legacy was love. He told them: “As I have loved you, so you must love one another” (v. 34).

It may be good to do some “Swedish death cleaning” in our lives, removing clutter to leave behind only the most important things. But it really isn’t about things or money. The most important legacy you can leave behind is your love for Jesus. When children and friends remember you as one who loved Jesus, that is the best gift of all. It gives new meaning to the phrase “left behind.”

One of the great hymn writers of all time, Isaac Watts, wrote “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.” In penning its lyrics, he used the poetic device of paradox to show a contrast in themes: “my richest gain I count but loss” and “pour contempt on all my pride.” We sometimes call these “oxymorons,” words used in seeming contradiction to themselves—like “awfully good” and “jumbo shrimp.” In the case of Watts’s lyrics, this device is far more profound.

Jesus used paradox often. “Blessed are the poor in spirit” (Matthew 5:3), He said, suggesting that those who have no hope will receive more than they could ever hope for. Jesus speaks to you and me who’ve lost someone dear (v. 4), assuring us that those who are sad “will be comforted.” Later in His ministry Jesus says, “Many who are first will be last, and many who are last will be first” (19:30). Jesus was showing how in God’s kingdom the common rules of religion don’t apply.

These paradoxes tell us that life in Christ defies all expectations: we who are nobodies are cherished as somebodies. It was on the cross that Jesus bore a visual paradox—a crown of thorns. Isaac Watts took this symbol of ridicule and, paradoxically, gave it soaring beauty: “Did e’er such love and sorrow meet, / or thorns compose so rich a crown?” In this we thrill yet are mindful of the final line of the hymn: “Love so amazing, so divine, / demands my soul, my life, my all.” 

Most have never heard of Kate Hankey, but she was a remarkable woman. A teacher, evangelist, school organizer, missionary, and poet, she faithfully served Jesus in 1800s England. In 1867, Kate contracted a serious illness. During her recovery, she penned a lengthy poem in two parts “The Story Wanted” and “The Story Told.” The poem expresses in a very personal way her relationship with Jesus and the events of his life.

All of Scripture points to Jesus and tells His story. John begins his epistle reminding readers how they had personally experienced Jesus: “That which . . . we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked at and our hands have touched” (1 John 1:1). Because of our experience of Him, the apostle writes, we’re telling the Jesus story: “The life appeared; we have seen it and testify to it” (v. 2). Later, John makes the fascinating comment, “The word of God lives in you” (2:14). In other words, the Jesus story is our story too. We’re called to tell the story of Jesus in light of our own experience with Him. 

This is what Kate Hankey did in her poem. Eventually, the two parts of her poem became these beloved hymns: “I Love to Tell the Story” and “Tell Me the Old, Old Story.” Perhaps we might, like Kate, find our own words and share our story with Jesus—the unique way in which he loved us, came to us, and rescued us.

It was 1968, and America was mired in a war with Vietnam, racial violence was exploding in cities, and two public figures had been assassinated. A year before, fire had taken the lives of three astronauts on the launchpad, and the idea of going to the moon seemed like a pipe dream. Nonetheless, Apollo 8 managed to launch a few days before Christmas.

It became the first manned mission to orbit the moon. The flight crew, Borman, Anders, and Lovell—all men of faith—broadcast a Christmas Eve message: “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth” (Genesis 1:1). At the time, it was the most watched TV event in the world, and millions shared the God’s-eye view of Earth in a now iconic photo. Frank Borman finished the reading: “And God saw that it was good” (v. 10).

Sometimes it’s hard to look at ourselves, all the hardships we’re mired in, and see anything that’s good. But we might return to the story of creation and see God’s view of us: “In the image of God he created them” (v. 27). Let’s pair that with another divine-eye view: “For God so loved the world” (John 3:16). Today, remember that God created you, sees the good despite the sin, and loves the you He created.

A man in court filed a restraining order against God. He claimed God had been “particularly unkind” to him and had exhibited a “seriously negative attitude.” The presiding judge dismissed the suit, saying the man needed help not from the court but from other sources. A true story: humorous, but also sad—the man needed mental help.

But are we so different? Don’t we sometimes want to say, “Stop, God, please, I’ve had enough!” Job did. The book of Job is very much a story of God on trial. After enduring unspeakable personal tragedies, Job says, “I want to argue my case with God himself” (Job 13:3, nlt). Job speaks of “taking God to court” (9:3 nlt), and he and his friends debate God’s purposes. Job even puts forth a restraining order: “Withdraw your hand far from me and stop frightening me” (13:21). Job’s prosecution argument wasn’t his own innocence but God’s unreasonable harshness: “Does it please you to oppress me?” (10:3).

Sometimes we feel God is unfair. In truth, the story of Job is complex, not providing easy answers. God restores Job’s physical fortunes in the end, but that isn’t always His plan for us. Perhaps we find something of a verdict in Job’s final admission: “I was talking about things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know” (42:3). The point is, God has reasons we know nothing of, and there is wonderful hope in that.