So today, on December 4th, I’m choosing to simply sit with the Lion who weeps, and perhaps that’s what you need, too. Not someone to fix it. Not someone to explain it. Just Someone who knows. Someone who says, “My child, I know.” 12/4/25
You stand for a moment, and you wonder, how did I get here? How did my life go from this to that right before my eyes? There are days where you still can’t believe it, or you forget the last thing has happened for the last time. Your ears trick you into believing you can still hear the jingle of dog tags hanging from a red and black checkered collar. Your mind still asks you what you’ll wear to church in the morning, because someone is always a little overzealous with the air conditioning. You wonder how many people will be in Sunday school that morning since this person and that person are on vacation or visiting family.
I often imagine this is how the Lord viewed us before He chose to send His Son. I can see Him looking down at us after His 400 years of silence and recognizing that the people He loved did not need to be conquered. They needed to be healed.
Aslan doesn’t go on to explain why Digory’s mother is sick or what the purpose of it all is. Neither does he promise to heal her in that moment, but what He asks Digory to do is trust Him. He does not act as if he doesn’t care, in fact, Digory felt as if Aslan cared more about his mother than he did. And the truth is, Aslan did.
Aslan doesn’t go on to explain why Digory’s mother is sick or what the purpose of it all is. Neither does he promise to heal her in that moment, but what He asks Digory to do is trust Him. He does not act as if he doesn’t care, in fact, Digory felt as if Aslan cared more about his mother than he did. And the truth is, Aslan did.
You’re trying to fight the fierce, yet holy, pilgrimage that grief will take you on. We tend to swim against the currents of it, terrified of being overwhelmed or even becoming lost in our brokenness.
The Few 