A young man had just buried his wife. Back home from the cemetery, he put his small son to bed and lay down in the darkness himself — grief-stricken, hollowed out, with no idea how to face what came next.

From across the room, his little boy broke the silence. "Daddy, where is mommy?" The father brought the boy into bed with him, but the child kept asking — why isn't she here, when is she coming back — until finally the boy said something that stopped his father cold.

"Daddy, if your face is toward me, I think I can go to sleep now."

And in a little while, he was quiet.

The father lay in the darkness and found himself praying the only prayer he had: "O God, I don't see how I can survive this. The future looks so miserable. But if your face is toward me — somehow I think I can make it."

That prayer is ancient. The Psalmist prayed it thousands of years ago: "Restore us, O God; let your face shine, that we may be saved." A grieving father prayed it in the dark. People of faith have prayed it in every century since, in every language, in every kind of darkness.

It is not a prayer that asks for the darkness to be removed. It is a prayer that asks for presence within it. A face turned toward us. The assurance that we are not alone in what we are carrying.

That may be enough. For a child in the dark, it was. For a grieving father, it was. It may be for you today as well.

Prayer: Turn your face toward us, O God. We are not asking for easy answers or quick relief — only for the assurance of your presence. Let us sense you here, in whatever darkness we are sitting in today. That may be enough. Amen.

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Years ago, a friend of mine was out teaching some kids to surf.  He just happened to be in the right place at the right time - because he heard a little girl screaming for help. She had been caught in a rip current and was being pulled out to sea. He swam out to her as fast as he could. When he reached her, he was relieved to find the water only chest deep.

For him. 

For her, it was completely over her head.

I think about how sometimes with us - we feel like that child - just overwhelmed by the waters of trouble or uncertainty or we are overwhelmed by fear. We find ourselves in over our heads and it feels as though we are going to drown.  Sometimes life circumstances can suddenly rise above us. A diagnosis. A financial crisis. A relationship fracturing beyond what we know how to fix. 

What felt manageable becomes overwhelming, and we find ourselves going under.

Psalm 80 was written out of exactly that place. The community has been defeated, humiliated, brought to their knees. And their prayer is raw and unpolished: "How long will you be angry with your people? You have fed us with the bread of tears." There is no pretending here. No tidy faith. Just an honest cry from people who have run out of other options.

And yet — they pray. That is the thing. In the very act of crying out, there is a thread of hope still running through them. They have not let go entirely. They are still reaching.

Psalm 80 ends with this: "Restore us, O God; let your face shine, that we may be saved."

Not a confident declaration. A desperate plea. And sometimes that is exactly what faith looks like — not certainty, but the refusal to stop reaching for the One who can reach back.

Prayer: Hear us, O God, in the moments when we are in over our heads. We don't always have the words — sometimes we only have the reaching. Meet us there. Let your face shine on us, even now. Amen.

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How does faith mend a broken heart? Sooner or later, heartache comes to all of us. Sadness, sorrow, disappointment, grief, rejection, hurt - whatever you wish to call it - rears its head and covers us like a heavy blanket. Let me suggest some resources of the Christian faith that can help us walk through the dark valley of sorrow. First, claim the fellowship of the church. Let the church family's arms of love surround you and support you. Never forget that you are not alone. God is with you. Nothing, not even death, can separate you from the love of God. No matter how hurt you may feel, let the church be an integral part of the healing process.  

Second, and this may surprise you, claim the power of helping others, which comes only from having gone through the grief pilgrimage. Those who have gone through sorrow of any kind have a new empathy, a new sensitivity, a new compassion, and a new power to help others. Jesus said, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted!" The word comforted comes from the Latin words - cum, which means "with" and fortis, which means "strength." So the word comforted means literally "with strength"! Thus, Jesus was saying "Blessed are those who have gone through sorrow, for they are with strength." Someone once put it like this; "Whoever among us has, through personal experience learned what pain and anxiety are.... belongs no more to themselves alone; they are the sister, the brother of all who suffer." 

Friend of Dial Hope, claim that strength to help others which comes only on the other side of trouble, only from walking through the valley of grief. God needs you to share yourself with others. Memorize this verse: "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" (Philippians 4:13). Trust God...trust God....trust God. 

Let us pray: God of love, some days there is so much pain, so much emptiness. And yet, you know what we are feeling. As we count our blessings, keep us from wallowing in self-pity so that we may encourage and comfort others. Turn our sadness to laughter, remembering that "A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a downcast spirit dries up the bones.' (Proverbs 1 7:22) Through the grace of Jesus Christ. Amen.

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In the 1940s, a man named Clarence Jordan started a farm in Americus, Georgia — an intentional community where poor whites and poor blacks would live and work together. In the Deep South of that era, this was not a popular idea.

For fourteen years, the surrounding community tried to shut him down. Boycotts. Slashed tires. Intimidation of every kind. Finally, in 1954, the Ku Klux Klan came out one night with guns and torches and burned every building on the farm to the ground — except Clarence's house, which they riddled with bullets.

The next morning a reporter arrived to cover the story. He found Clarence in the field, hoeing and planting in the scorched earth. The reporter pressed him, trying to get a reaction. Finally he said, with barely concealed contempt: "Dr. Jordan, you've got two PhDs and you've been fourteen years into this farm — and there's nothing left of it at all. Just how successful do you think you've been?"

Clarence kept hoeing. Then he said: "About as successful as the cross. Sir, I don't think you understand us. We are not called to be successful — just faithful. We're staying."

We are not called to be successful. Just faithful.

Years later, that farm became the birthplace of Habitat for Humanity. It is still operating today. But Clarence didn't know that when he was hoeing in the ashes. He was just being faithful to the next thing in front of him.

The cross looked like failure too. It wasn't.

Prayer: Holy God, free us from our obsession with results and success. Teach us the deeper faithfulness of those who keep hoeing and planting even when everything around them has been reduced to ash. Remind us that you have a way of bringing life out of exactly those places. We're staying. Amen.

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In June of 2015, a twenty-one-year-old man walked into a Bible study at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina — a historic Black congregation. He sat with the group for an hour. Then he took out a gun and killed nine people.

It was an act of cowardice and racial hatred. The shock and grief were immeasurable.

But what happened in the days that followed stopped the country in its tracks. Family members of the victims stood before the killer in court and offered him forgiveness.

Nadine Collier, whose mother was among those killed, looked at the shooter and said: "You took something very precious away from me. I will never talk to her ever again. I will never be able to hold her again. But I forgive you. And have mercy on your soul."

Bethane Middleton-Brown, who lost her sister, said: "I acknowledge that I am very angry. But my sister taught me that we are the family that love built. We have no room for hating."

They were criticized by some for forgiving too quickly. But I think they understood something the critics missed. Their forgiveness was not a denial of their grief or an excuse for what had been done. It was a witness — a costly, deliberate witness to the kind of king they follow.

We worship a King who, from the cross, said "Father, forgive them." A King who overcame the worst the world could do not with retaliation but with love. When the people of Emanuel AME chose forgiveness, they were not being naive. They were being faithful. They were picking up their cross.

We have no room for hating. What a testimony. What a King!

Prayer: Forgive us, Lord God, for the ways we hold onto anger and nurse our grievances. Give us the courage of those who have chosen forgiveness in circumstances far harder than our own. Make us people who have no room for hating — because we are too full of love. We ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

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