Pandemics. Natural disasters. Economic hardship.

The year 2020 carried weight—too much of it, for too many. It came like a tidal wave, sudden and sweeping, leaving the world cracked and changed. Across continents and deep within our homes, suffering made its presence known. It came in the form of empty chairs at dinner tables, unread messages that would never be answered, and dreams put on hold. And still, through all the noise and grief, a timeless question lingers quietly in our souls: Why is there so much pain in the world? Is suffering simply something we must endure, or is there meaning in the ache?

So where is God in all this?

Yesterday, I spent the entire day glued to my phone. Scrolling, refreshing, reading. Watching helplessly as Typhoon Ulysses battered the Philippines—my home, my roots. I saw floodwaters rise, homes submerged, lives uprooted. I heard the fear in people’s voices, saw the exhaustion in their eyes. And from far away, I could only watch. There’s a particular kind of pain that comes from being separated from your family when they’re in danger. It’s a helplessness that gnaws at you. I wasn’t just witnessing one storm—I was weathering another. My father’s health was worsening, and questions kept circling my mind like vultures: What if I don’t make it back in time? What if tomorrow is too late?

I was also in self-isolation after a COVID-19 exposure. Alone in my flat, surrounded by silence that felt heavier than noise. The hours blurred into each other. Sleep refused to come. Some nights, I cried without even knowing why. Hope felt like a thread—thin, fraying, and almost invisible. And yet, somewhere in the stillness of those dark hours, I heard a whisper. Not an answer, but a promise. Psalm 30:5 came gently into my mind: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” It doesn’t deny the existence of the night. It acknowledges the tears. But it promises that the morning will come. Not instantly, not always loudly, but certainly. Slowly, the light will find its way in.

And that’s what I’ve come to believe—that suffering, while painful, is not purposeless. If life were only ever easy, we would never understand the beauty of healing. We would never know the fierce strength that comes from getting up after we’ve fallen. Growth rarely feels good while it’s happening. It strips us. It humbles us. It hurts. But it also opens us up to truths we might never have seen otherwise. This year has been painful, yes—but also clarifying. It peeled away illusions and forced us to see what truly matters. It slowed us down and turned our eyes inward. It made us treasure the simplest of things: presence, peace, and the people we love.

So where is God in all this? He’s here. Not far away or looking on indifferently. He’s in the quiet moments. He’s in the flood of our tears. He’s in the prayers we whisper at 3 a.m. when no one else can hear. He’s in the unexpected kindness of a friend, in the stranger who helps, in the strength that shows up just when we think we’ve reached the end of ourselves. God isn’t absent from our pain—He’s right in the middle of it. Holding us. Weeping with us. And planting seeds of something new, even in the most broken soil. Sometimes, it’s in the darkest night that we finally learn to see the stars. Sometimes, the breaking open is where the light gets in.

God isn’t absent from our pain—He’s right in the middle of it. Holding us. Weeping with us. And planting seeds of something new, even in the most broken soil.

So if you’re tired—if you’re holding yourself together with shaking hands, if you’re asking “why” and hearing only silence in return—please know this: you’re not alone. This won’t last forever. The weight will lift. The tears will slow. Morning will come, even if it takes its time. Even if it looks different than what you were hoping for. There is still joy ahead. Not in spite of the sorrow, but perhaps because of it. Joy that arrives quietly. Joy that heals gently. Joy that teaches us to breathe again.

With love,
Anj 💛