The Longest Night of My Life

Weeping may last for the night.

Some days it feels like the longest night of my life.

I miss my children today—the ones I haven’t met yet. I’d hoped these days would look different, that they would include a chubby set of twins, their eyes following the zigzag patterns run by their older siblings.

I’ve missed the kicks and rolls I would have felt if our fifth child were still here and only a few months from her due date.

I wish things were different.

I know I’m not the only one. Many people are hurting today. Our world is groaning under the weight of a pandemic that’s had its way with us. Much has been lost, broken, or damaged. There is much to grieve. There is much to weep over.

The night is long.

I think of the women who visited the tomb of Jesus after his death. I think of the anguish that must have ripped through their hearts as they watched him breathe his last on the cross. Those soul-crushing hours after his death must have been excruciating. What was it like when they finally rested their heads on their pillows that evening? Could they sleep? Could they breathe? Did they question everything?

It must have felt like the longest night.

But on the third day, as the women stared at that empty tomb, an angel spoke these words:

“He is not here, he has risen, just as he said.”

Just as he said.

Can you hear the gentle truth, the weight of meaning packed into those four words?

What might that angel have said if he had elaborated?

Precious women, he’s not here—he’s alive, just like he said! You look shocked, you look confused, you look like you believe everything good in your life is lost. You look like you have no hope, no future, no anchor. But your Savior keeps his promises. He always has, and he always will. He told you death wouldn’t win. He told you weeping would last for the night–maybe even the longest night of your life–but that joy would come. And it has! Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever, and when he says something will happen, there is nothing—no height, no depth, no tragedy, no pandemic, no grief, no loss, no death—that will stop or undo his word. 

The question of Why is relentless, and in my darkest moments I find myself looking to my pain for the answers to hard questions instead of to the One who keeps all his promises and is trustworthy.

If he’s trustworthy, I don’t need to know why. Because I already know him.

And he is good.

I miss my children today. But tomorrow—and every day—we celebrate Easter, a day when Jesus did the unthinkable and rendered death defeated. The moment his heart began beating again, the doors of heaven swung wide open to all who believe. Death did not have the last word for him, and it doesn’t have to for us, either.

I miss my children today. But because of Jesus, one day I’ll see them and know them. Our sin separates us from God, but the perfect life, death, and resurrection of Jesus is the bridge that makes a way for us.

And if you are walking through the longest night of your life right now, that promise can be true for you, too.

Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.

Because he has risen.

Just as he said.