I won’t tell you comparison is the thief of joy, or to count your blessings, that the grass only seems greener. Because the more you hear those words, the more you doubt your pain matters.
You’ve collected hundreds of platitudes, knick-knacks cluttering the shelves. You felt too ashamed to refuse the well-meant gifts that just weren’t what you needed.
Before the miracle, before he clothed the sisters in unexpected joy, Jesus wept.
Jesus didn’t tell Mary and Martha to look on the bright side with a shiny American smile.
The kindest thing a woman ever said as I compared my pain to others’ joy was “If that was my reality, I would be sad and hurt.” She wept with me from God’s heart. My pain mattered.
The one who sees your future joy, the brightness of the times ahead, held in his hands—he weeps as though your finite eyes were his.
Your pain matters to him.