Some questions don’t have clean answers.
Why do bad things happen?
Why do children suffer?
Why are we here?

These aren’t just philosophical musings. – they’re wilderness cries They’re cries from hospital rooms, quiet bedsides, and the tearful silence of those who’ve seen too much too young. They rise from the rubble of warzones and the ache of abandoned hearts. They come from the therapist’s chair, too—from little voices asking questions no child should have to form.

“Why did this happen to me?”
“What did I do wrong?”
“Why did God let it happen?”

And if we’re honest, we’ve asked them, too.

The Ache of Injustice

It’s one thing to wrestle with suffering in theory. It’s another to look into the eyes of a child who’s been harmed and try to hold their pain with dignity and hope. There’s a kind of heartbreak that makes the world tilt sideways, where even the most well-intentioned theology can feel hollow.

We want answers.
We want justice.
We want to believe that life makes sense—that there is order, purpose, and meaning.

But sometimes, all we have is presence.

What to Do With the Hurt

When children are wounded by abuse, neglect, violence, or loss, our first task isn’t to explain their pain away. It’s to honor it. To hold space for the heartbreak. To say with our eyes, our hands, our breath: You matter. You are not alone. What happened to you was not your fault.

We become meaning-makers by how we show up—not just by what we say.

• We hold their trembling stories with reverence.
• We mirror back the truth of their worth when shame whispers otherwise.
• We become safe, predictable, and kind—until their bodies begin to believe safety is possible again.

And slowly, healing comes. Not always with fanfare. Not in a straight line. But it comes—in laughter that returns, in eyes that meet yours, in the fierce little declarations like, “I made a new friend today.” That, too, is a kind of resurrection.

Why Are We Here?

Existentialists have long asked the question: What is the meaning of life?

Some would say, “There isn’t one”—at least not an inherent one. But maybe that’s the wrong question.

Maybe it’s not about finding some prewritten meaning. Maybe it’s about making it.

Maybe we’re here to love.
To see each other.
To suffer with and for one another.
To be the balm in someone else’s wound.
To choose kindness even when life feels cruel.

As a person of faith, I believe we are part of a much larger story—one that includes pain but isn’t defined by it. I believe in a God who suffers with us. A God who weeps, not because He is powerless, but because love always joins the hurting. And I believe we are here to reflect that kind of love—to be image-bearers of mercy, even in a fractured world.

Holding the Questions

I don’t have all the answers. None of us do.

But I do know this: When we stop pretending we have to tie it all up in a neat bow, we make room for something better—something real. We make space for healing. For wonder. For solidarity. For hope.

Even amid the ache, life still calls us to show up.

To hold the questions tenderly.
To care for the brokenhearted.
To find meaning in how we love.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the holiest work of all.