Reading Jeremiah alone leaves faith in death where God finally will not stay. And reading Second Isaiah alone leads us to imagine that we may receive comfort without tears and tearing. Clearly, only those who anguish will sing new songs. Without anguish the new song is likely to be strident and just more royal fakery.

When he hung over the death-bed of his infant son Ibrahim, resignation to the Will of God was exhibited in his conduct under this keenest of afflictions; and the hope of soon rejoining his child in paradise was his consolation. When he followed him to the grave, he invoked his spirit, in the awful examination of the tomb, to hold fast to the foundations of the faith, the Unity of God, and his own mission as a Prophet.

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and unspeakable love.

I don't believe that grief passes away. It has its time and place forever. More time is added to it; it becomes a story within a story. But grief and griever alike endure.

Hearts of stone are often hearts that have been wounded, overburdened, and disappointed. The walls of the heart have toughened to prevent the absorption of more pain and to preserve the appearance of life. Left un-dealt with, these hearts can become cynical, untrusting, and able to see dire need and feel nothing. They can even live in continual violence and be seemingly unaffected.

My friends, because Jesus endured the cross, He has given us the power to endure whatever we must face in life. Even when the sky grows dark and we feel abandoned by all we love, God is there with comfort and healing. Never alone; never forsaken; always loved. That is the promise of the cross. Don't ever lose heart. Look to the cross and victorious King, who conquered sin and death on it. He has overcome the world.

The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good tidings to the afflicted; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted.

You would have to abandon the jig-saw kind of story and write a book about human beings for a change.' 'I'm afraid to try that, Peter. It might go too near the bone.' 'It might be the wisest thing you could do.' 'Write it out and get rid of it?' 'Yes.' 'I'll think about that. It would hurt like hell.' 'What would that matter, if it made a good book?

My father's passing comes with sorrow and grief for me, for my mother, for my brothers, and for my sisters. He was a great fire who burned bright, and we lived in his light and warmth for so very long.

Depression runs in my family on both sides, and I have to be wary.

What does it all mean if I don't have family? If my mother is in the cold, hard ground?

It is easier to hide behind philosophical arguments, heavily footnoted for effect, than it is to admit our hurts, our confusions, our loves, and our passions in the marketplace of life's heartfelt transactions.