Our community suffered a great loss this week. An 18-year-old 2015 graduate was killed in a car crash early Sunday morning. Just like that, she was gone.

She woke up and probably thought it was going to be a normal day, just like any other. Instead, she met her Maker. By God’s grace, she trusted Christ as her Savior and is now enjoying eternity in His presence.

A few days ago, my almost ten-year-old daughter asked if she could have Pop Tarts for her upcoming birthday breakfast. Her 8-year-old brother quickly pointed out, “You might not even be here then.”

It might sound morbid, but my son understands that tomorrow is not guaranteed. At least, not in this life.

But for those who have put their faith and hope in Jesus Christ, there IS the promise of a better tomorrow — a tomorrow with “no more death or mourning or crying or pain,” for all who believe (Revelation 21:4).

Until then, it’s easy to fear what lies ahead beyond the horizon, beyond what our fallible eyes can see.

I wrote the following post several weeks ago, but apparently the Lord had me save it for such a time as this.



In light of this week’s events, I’m also offering my e-book, Letters to Grief, FREE from Monday to Friday this week (6/29-7/3) on Amazon Kindle. 

Click here for your free download.

(If you don’t have a free Kindle reading app to use on any device, you can get one by clicking here.)


An Open Letter to the Future


Dear Future,

The other day, I watched a friend stand up to you. She was afraid of you. She went to bed scared and woke up terrified.

Weary of the fear, she put on her brave.

I watched with silent applause as she squinted her eyes and leaned into you. She gripped a raised umbrella, shielding her cheeks from the force of your wind.

She doesn’t know what you look like, but she held on tight and walked forward in the face of your shadowed anonymity.

I want to be her.

[Tweet “I want to push into your unknown with quiet confidence that trembles a little at the edges.”]

Instead, I feel your tension in the middle of the night.

Your fickle moods manifest in my sleep.

I feel it in the clench of my jaw when I wake. I massage the knots and try to rub your uncertainty out of my face but you’re locked deep beneath the skin.

Your question marks are lodged between muscle and bone and sometimes I forget that I hold the key to release you.

I try running more, as if the exercise will free me from your tension.
[Tweet “I can’t outrun the fear of you.”]

The secret to a good night’s sleep is found not in running, but in resting.

Resting in the One who holds you and me both.

I may not know what you hold, but I know the One who holds you — and that makes all the difference.


I don't know what tomorrow holds. But I


You are not the boss of me.

I need not stand in fear of you.

Yes, you’ve made me waver in the past. I’ve lost sleep over you. I’ve longed to know what you look like.

But I know the One who made you, who owns you, who sees you and knows you.

I don’t need to fear you, because in Him I trust.


Image courtesy of kaitlynbouchillon.com, used with permission

Image courtesy of kaitlynbouchillon.com, used with permission


You are divided.

You exist in before and after. An invisible curtain looms within you, unseen, but known.

This side of the curtain, you are a black hole. A void. Dense fog.

I can’t see whether the sunset is crimson or grey, whether the sunrise is rose or shrouded in gloom.

But soon the clouds on your horizon will blow away and the Light that has come into the world will make you fully known.

Beyond the curtain, there is certainty. Surety. Hope. Clarity.


“She is clothed with strength and

A great day is coming when all your question marks will turn to periods. Full stops.

The dead will be raised to life.

Every knee shall bow.

No more tears. No more death.

No more clenched, aching jaws.

No more question marks.

Only hope.

Only promises fulfilled.

So I step into you gently, unsure of how or where my foot may land today — but persuaded that beyond the curtain, I’ll find the solid Rock on whom I stand.



Related Post: An Open Letter to Grief