The Ceramic Floor
Kneeling on the hard ceramic floor of our rented home in Tennessee, sobs wracked my body. I remember crying out, “No God! No!” Why had he allowed this to happen to my child too, and from someone even closer? It was the deepest betrayal I could imagine and one I’d spent my whole life vowing I’d never allow any of my children to experience.
As I look back on that experience, I have enough perspective to see the goodness of God. I have been given so much: faith, family, friends, work, and a complex childhood that included suffering, contradictions, and uncommon adventures. I have hope because everything I’ve received, good or bad, is a gift from God for my ultimate good. Promotions and pay raises, pain and persecution—everything serves the greatest good—the glory of God.
Years later as I sip my morning coffee, I know this story and my conclusions about it are true. But as I read it back, it feels a bit abstract. What really is the glory of God, and why should I experience pain or suffering to advance it? When a child suffers abuse, especially when it’s your own child, words and reason reach their end. Any explanation is radically insufficient.
On that ceramic floor, I couldn’t see any of the blessings I’d been taking for granted; my next breath, for example. Every intake of oxygen-rich air freely taken and received without awareness or thanksgiving. But violence and suffering are an inescapable existential reality that often provokes a crisis of faith. Why would a good God allow or even ordain such horrendous things to enter anyone’s life, and especially those who profess faith and love for him?
I spent months wrestling with God and seeking answers to resolve these questions. But there were no neat conclusions. All that remained is my bedrock conviction that our good God wastes absolutely nothing. I was right to ask why it happened. And I can be sure there is an answer, even if I’ll never know it.
I’ve never felt anything like this tearing of my soul. Everything was broken, and nothing was whole. The injury to one of my children felt like a world-ending cataclysm. The deepest of betrayals, to my child, not to me. Someone who should have been trustworthy was not. I failed as a father in my primary role of protection, and my world spun out of control. Old wounds from childhood exposure to abuse and violence became enflamed, and tears ran freely in prayer, for months that turned into years.
Gradually, I made peace with God again. I let go of my false sense of control and saw my ability to protect my family as a false construct. Yes, I’ll do everything I can, but it will not always be enough. I made peace with a God that will be enough for my family, even when I am not. My grip on my reputation, money, abilities and talents also loosened as I realized I’d found false security in things that will ultimately fail. I need God.
There is a deeper reason for the pain I’ve borne along with the countless joys of life. Every wound is a story I can offer back to God. My sobs on the hard ceramic floor in Tennessee can be overcome through the blood Jesus shed on the cross and the story I tell about it. But I gloss over another duty I have as a Christ-follower: to not love my life too much, to lay it down in surrender. My future hope can allow me to rise above the temporary pains of this life.
I can’t overcome the world by dominating it, but by bringing an eternal perspective into the present. And my story, or testimony, the truth of what I’ve done and what’s been done to me, this is my gift, to be shared, to be given back to God in generous acts of creativity.
So I’m offering my life back to Him, one story at a time—starting with this one. Might this small act of faith transform pain, suffering and evil into good? Maybe I can walk with others as they discover that the foundation of their security has crumbled. I’ll tell them stories, not because I have answers, but because God enters into them with us and suffers with us. He will redeem every broken thing.
