The tears come without warning.

One minute I’m smiling and I’m fine and everything is fine.

And the next—I can’t stop crying. Everything in me breaks and crumbles; what strength I have falls away.

Moments like these happen when a kind person asks me how I’m really doing or when friends ask about my family.

Or when I’m alone, driving on long roads. If I turn down the noise and let the music fade, my sadness crowds the empty space around me. I lean forward, clenching the steering wheel as the tears fight their way down my cheeks.

In those moments, I don’t know what to say to God—or even what words I could use to pray. He knows, I think. When my spirit breaks, He hears the crack.

God is cutting deep—deeper than He has before. And as sadness knifes through me, I wonder how much worse this will get. How much more will He cut away? I resist the blade, I shrink back from its touch.

But He is the gardener and I am the rose and this is the pruning.

Only with pruning, will new life and growth come. Others have borne worse, I know. Many Christians have endured more loss and grief than I may ever know.

I’ve been cut back before, but never like this.

God does not hurry; He does not force His way through. The knife eases against my soul. I look past the blade and see His eyes. They sorrow. They grieve.

“It hurts.” I can’t say the words, but He hears them, I’m sure.

I know. He whispers, His voice about to break. I know how much it hurts. But it’s the only way.

He understands my pain because He has been through worse. He watched as those He created and loved turned against His only Son. He felt their hatred towards Jesus; He knew their every thought as they nailed His Son to a tree.

God has known the full extent of grief.

George Macdonald wrote, “The Son of God suffered unto the death, not that men might not suffer, but that their sufferings might be like His.”

Jesus did not suffer in order that I may never feel pain or grief.  But His sufferings redeem my own. Because He bore the cross, I can find hope through any trial. The pain remains but there is meaning in the madness.

And I think of when God’s Son—His only Son—fell to His knees the night before He chose to bear the cross. In the garden, Jesus told His disciples, “My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even to death.”

Exceedingly sorrowful. Beyond sorrow. His pain was more than He could bear, but He still bore it.

Jesus, overwhelmed and truly alone, cried out to His Father. He prayed, “O My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as You will.”

Nevertheless.

Nevertheless, Lord.

And somewhere deep in my soul, I find the words to pray.

Abba, my grief is not close to what Jesus felt that night. What You’ve asked me to do is not as exceedingly difficult. But my soul is weary and I can not bear this burden alone. I do not want to bear it at all. I do not want to watch my mom die. I want her to be there one day when I marry and when I have my own children. I want her by my dad’s side as they grow old. I want to watch her hair turn gray.

O My Father, My good kind Father whose love I feel and know is true, please, let this cup pass from me, from all of us. Please let this not be a story that ends in sorrow and grief like so many others. Please change the ending like you’ve done before. Please heal her. Please do the impossible.

But, Lord, give me the strength to say: nevertheless. Nevertheless, not as I will or as I want, but as You will.

This is Your story, God. It always has been. And I trust You with it—with all of us.

Even though the pain overwhelms me and drags me down, even though the sadness is more than I will understand, despite all of the tears and the cuts that feel too deep—I trust You. I have since I was a child, and I will every day of my life.

I know You always have a plan and a reason and purpose for every word of the story that You write. Give me the strength to say nevertheless.