“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
— Revelation 21:4 (NIV)
In my reading of Eckhart Tolle, I came across a profound notion about compassion. He speaks of compassion for the human condition—the limitations of our earthly existence, the challenges and triumphs, the tragedies, the suffering, and the questions for which there seem to be no answers. But there is another dimension to compassion: the recognition that our existence is greater than the circumstances of this temporary life.
I find myself wrestling with this truth, especially when confronted with the illness and suffering of those I love.
There is something heartbreaking about watching someone reach the realization that they may not get better. That the treatments may not work. That the hospital bed they occupy may be where their earthly journey comes to an end. That they may never come home.
And in those moments, I find myself asking God questions that I suspect have been asked since the beginning of time.
Why must it be this way? Why must we suffer? Why can’t those we love simply be healed? Why can’t life be everything we wish it could be?
I believe in a loving God. I believe in His goodness, His mercy, and His promise of eternal life. Yet I would be less than truthful if I said my faith always quieted the anguish of watching someone suffer.
There is a struggle between what my heart desires and what my faith asks me to trust.
Somewhere in the middle of that struggle, however, lies a beautiful truth: This is not the end of the story.
Our faith tells us that all things will one day be made new. That what appears broken will be restored. That the suffering we experience in this world, however overwhelming it may seem, is temporary when placed against the backdrop of eternity.
The Apostle Paul reminds us:
“For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.”
— 2 Corinthians 4:17 (NIV)
I have to remind myself that Paul wasn’t dismissing suffering. He understood it intimately. He was pointing us toward something greater than suffering itself.
But still, the question remains.
Why must we endure pain to experience peace? Why must we know loss to understand the depth of love? Why can’t we have the joy without the sorrow, the beginning without the ending?
I don’t pretend to have those answers. Perhaps no human being does. These are mysteries that belong to God, and I trust that one day what seems so terribly confusing will become clear.
What I do know is that some of the most beautiful moments of my life have been made more precious by the knowledge that they cannot last forever.
The laughter of someone we love. The embrace we wish could last another moment. The simple blessing of sitting together, unaware that one day we would give anything to return to that ordinary afternoon.
Isn’t it remarkable how the simplest things become the most sacred when we recognize how temporary they are?
Perhaps that is part of the lesson of our earthly journey. Not that God requires suffering before allowing us joy, but that our human limitations often prevent us from recognizing the extraordinary gifts already in our possession.
We become so consumed with what is wrong that we overlook what is right. So frightened of what we might lose that we forget to appreciate what we have.
And when loss finally comes, we discover just how much love was there all along.
To know one is often to understand the other.
Yet I refuse to believe that suffering has the final word. I refuse to believe that death is the conclusion of a life so miraculously created.
Jesus tells us:
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms.”
— John 14:1–2 (NIV)
What a beautiful promise.
A home beyond this home. A beginning beyond what we perceive as an ending. An existence no longer burdened by the frailties of the body, the torment of the mind, or the uncertainty of tomorrow.
And perhaps the greatest revelation is that the freedom we seek in eternity is something God invites us to experience, at least in part, right now.
We are so captivated by our earthly circumstances that we forget we are spiritual beings living a temporary human experience. We allow fear to convince us that what is happening today is all there is.
But it isn’t.
We are already held in the love of God. We are already promised something greater. We are already free in spirit, even when our minds cannot comprehend it.
That doesn’t mean we won’t grieve. It doesn’t mean we won’t be afraid. And it certainly doesn’t mean we won’t cry when someone we love is preparing to leave this world.
It means we can be sad for the ending while remaining faithful to the beginning that awaits.
I think that is where compassion and faith finally meet. We can acknowledge the heartbreak of our human condition without surrendering our hope in the divine.
We can hold the hand of someone who is suffering, wish with everything in us that things were different, and still believe that God is present in the room.
Not because we understand His plan, but because we trust His love.
So today, my prayer is simple.
Lord, give me the strength to accept what I cannot understand. Help me find gratitude in the moments I still have rather than surrendering them to the fear of what may come. Give comfort to those who suffer, peace to those who are afraid, and courage to those who must say goodbye.
And when my own heart grows weary, remind me that You have carried me through every season of my life.
You have brought me this far, Lord. I trust that You will not let me go now.
My brothers and sisters, be sad for the end if you must. Grieve, cry, and love with everything you have. But never lose sight of the beginning.
For what we call the end may simply be the moment when the limitations of this world fall away and we finally see what God has been preparing for us all along.
One day, we will understand. Until then, we have faith.
And perhaps faith is enough to carry us home.
