He’s in critical condition with broken bones and a ripped up brain in an induced coma. He’s the 16 year-old brother of one of my former art students.  Our families attended the same church for a few years.

Headed to school last Friday morning, he comes to a curve.  His car tumbles sideways—three times, I hear.  I see video of  his car being dragged out of the woods.  But he’s not out of the woods yet, there in intensive care. He’s wrecked.  Broken. Torn.  It’s a wonder he’s still alive. A miracle, really.

I’m still praying for more miracles.  Because many more miracles are needed right now.  And I can’t help but wonder . . .

Why, Lord?  Why, this young man?  Why not my son—my husband—another teen boy?

My son and husband were in a car accident a short time ago leaving our car and the other teen’s car totaled, air bags deployed, whiplash for the two teens and sore bodies for all.  They all could have been critically injured or killed had not our 18 year-old and the other teen not swerved every so slightly right before impact.  The cars would have hit perpendicular, the teen boy slamming straight into my husband’s door at 50 mph.

Why?  Why is one mother’s son clinging to life when mine escaped death?

The many “why” questions in life can kill us for the not-knowing.

But maybe the best question isn’t “Why?”.  Maybe the best isn’t a question at all.  Maybe the most life-giving utterance is not a question but a promise.  And maybe the best action we can take is to grab hold of that promise as if our lives depend on it—as if our peace depends on it.  Because it does . . .

So I’m turning from my “why” questions again today.  I’m turning to the “who” who holds the planets in their orbits in absolute precision.  I’m turning to the “who” who knows what will happen before it happens—who is never blind-sided—who is never rendered incapacitated—who is always able to take the broken and torn and restore to better than before.

Today, I choose to focus on WHO, not why.

Today, though that sun slips up from the line of trees as I stand outside watching, waiting, shivering in my white robe, I chose to trust. A new season is coming.

Today, as that sun stays in view only a few moments before rising behind bruised purple clouds, I chose to trust.  The sun is still there.

And so is my Savior of all seasons who sees and cares.  More than we know.  Much more than we know.

Because God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”  So we say with confidence, “The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid . . .”

Hebrews 13:5-6