All month I’ve been thinking about what I was doing a year ago. Today is especially sobering. Last year on this day, I had no idea what tomorrow would bring. I thought, like every day that came before it, that I knew what my tomorrow would look like. This life on earth is fragile, and we are all in the middle of a story, and we don’t know the end.
I’ve struggled with Ecclesiastes 7:2, it’s better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting, but now I think I might understand this verse a bit better because for the last 364 days, I’ve chosen to trust the author and creator of my story—of Ken’s story—in the midst of pain and in a way I never could have before. The author of our story is trustworthy. He loves us; of this fact I’m sure.
Please don’t misunderstand. Trusting him in this hour is damn hard. So damn hard. I’ve yelled and cursed. I’ve cried and been terrified. I’ve struggled to breathe. I’ve just plain struggled. I’ve argued that the ending he’s written for my story isn’t the right ending. I want to edit it, to fix it and make it have the ending I want. I want to go back and rewrite tomorrow.
But he’s shown he’s trustworthy because he’s felt the pain. Feels the pain.
I will trust him today, and I will trust him tomorrow, no matter what tomorrow brings.