I was driving to a church.

A family was inside. And a casket. And the body of a young woman. And her three children. And her husband of ten years.

I was crying.

I hadn’t cried much for a few days, since Saturday night when we heard she died. I mean, I had some, but not a lot. Not for me.

Others in my family? They had cried. But I hadn’t. Much.

On the day I drove to the church, a trip that started at 3:10 pm, I couldn’t concentrate. I had many projects but I couldn’t focus. I had two conversations, unexpected, which went well. In one, I was even quite creative, quite passionate. But For the most part, I couldn’t concentrate.

Before I left for the church, a couple people asked if I was okay. I started crying. A bit. And I realized that I couldn’t focus because I was far more involved in this death than I understood, far more shaken inside, unaware.

I started driving. I started crying.

I realized, finally, that I am, before being a pastor, a person. People I care about are hurt. Not just people I care for, people I care about.  And because these are people I care about, I drive across town knowing I have nothing to say.

I can give answers when called upon. I could now. But in this situation, with those friends, with my family, I have no answers. I have nothing.

It is as if in one hand I have no understanding of the death of this young mother. In the other hand I have complete assent that God knows what he is doing.  In between the two hands is where I live.

No understanding. No explanation. Just trust.

It is an interesting place.

It is following.