When God Took My Son

There is a holy hush that settles on a soul when it has encountered deep suffering. As believers, we are not promised a life free of pain or loss. In fact, Scripture repeatedly tells us to expect hardship. Yet, when sorrow arrives unannounced, cloaked in the finality of death or the unraveling of what we hold dear, we often find ourselves asking the most human of questions: Why?

In the final weeks of 2020, our family was struck by a tragedy that reshaped our lives forever. My 20-year-old son, Nick, suddenly passed away. One moment, he was full of life, leading fellow seminarians in a simple game. The next, he was gone ushered into the arms of the Lord without warning. The shock was total. The grief, incomprehensible.

Our hearts cried out with anguish: Why, God? Why him? Why us?

In the aftermath, I turned not to new voices, but to old friends the words and writings of faithful men long gone, who had walked their own dark valleys and emerged still proclaiming God's goodness. The likes of Theodore Cuyler, F.B. Meyer, and especially J.R. Miller, became companions to my broken heart. They reminded me of something I had long believed but now had to live: suffering is not always about correction. Sometimes, it’s about witness.

J.R. Miller once wrote, “Godly men are called to endure loss, suffering, or sorrow… because the Master needs their witness to answer the sneers of the world.” That truth pierced me. This was not a punishment. This was not divine oversight. It was a calling.

We live in a world that increasingly views Christian faith with suspicion. According to Pew Research, 63% of U.S. adults still identify as Christian, but that number has been steadily declining, particularly among younger generations. Many see religion as a crutch, a convenience, or even a façade. They wonder: Will Christians still believe when their prayers go unanswered? Will they still praise when life falls apart?

And tragically, many believers prove them right. As Jesus taught in Matthew 13, some seeds fall on rocky ground. They spring up quickly, full of apparent faith, but when the sun of suffering rises, they wither. Their roots were shallow.

The world needs to see something different.

Our suffering can be a sacred testimony not of our strength, but of God’s. It declares to onlookers that our faith isn’t transactional. We don’t love God only for what He gives. We love Him because He is worthy, even in the valley of death. As Paul wrote from prison, “What has happened to me has really served to advance the gospel” (Philippians 1:12). If that could be true of chains and confinement, can it not also be true of loss and heartbreak?

The reality is, one in four Americans reports experiencing high levels of stress and grief in any given year. And yet, so few know where to take that pain. If our faith only shines when skies are clear, how will the lost ever see the path home when their world darkens?

So, I stand in this valley not unscathed, but unshaken.

From this broken place, I can still say that my Shepherd is good. That His presence is near. That His mercies have been new every morning, even when tears blurred my view. My wife, my daughters, and I have found no performance necessary. No pressure to pretend. God has held us with a love that is both gentle and unrelenting.

We do not pretend to know all of God’s reasons. We do not demand explanations. But we rest in His character. “My counsel shall stand, and I will accomplish all my purpose,” He declares in Isaiah 46:10. And we believe Him.

When Nick left this world, he left a hole in our hearts but not in our faith. Instead, what filled that space was a deeper love for the God who gives and takes away, the One who remains when all else fades.

If you're in a valley today, you are not alone. You may never receive the why, but you can trust the Who. And perhaps, like us, you’ll find that your tears are not wasted. They water the seeds of a witness the world desperately needs.

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