I Don't Know

You are sitting in a hospital room with your closest friend. She has lost so much already. Her husband left. Her daughter is struggling. She lost her house. Now she is sick, and the doctors have told her the cancer is not looking good.

She looks at you through tears and asks the question she has been asking herself for months.

"Why is God letting this happen to me?"

She asks you because, of all the people she knows, she thinks you know God better than anyone else. You've taught Bible study and prayed with her, and you've always had an answer.

But this time you pause.

There are tears in your eyes, and you say the truest words you've ever spoken. "I don't know."

Those may be the hardest words a person can say. We don't like them. We want answers.

If you go to a doctor because you've been sick for months, you expect the doctor to investigate. You may accept "I don't know yet" if the doctor is still looking for answers. But you don't want someone who simply gives up.

There are people who should know what they're talking about. That is reasonable.

But God isn't a diagnosis. And we don't have access to all that He knows.

Maybe you grew up in a Christian home. You learned Bible stories as a child. You went to Sunday school, listened to sermons, read your Bible, and prayed. As you got older, you learned more. You began to love God more because you came to know Him more.

Then someone asked you to lead a Bible study.

You were ready. You knew the subject, and you taught the women what you had learned. The group began with five women and grew to twenty. Over time, those women became more than people you taught. They became friends. You prayed together, laughed together, went out together, and shared the difficult parts of life.

Some friends became closer than others. That's just what happens.

One day, your closest friend tells you she's having trouble with her car. She can't afford the repair, but she needs the car to take her children to school. Her husband takes the other car to work every day. You have enough money to help, so you offer to pay for the repair. She's relieved, and you're glad you could help.

A little later, a pipe bursts in her house, and the damage is severe. This time the cost is more than you can give. She and her husband refinance their home just to repair the damage. You pray with her and ask God to provide for them and restore what they've lost.

Then her husband tells her he wants a divorce. He's seeing someone else. She's devastated. In the end, they couldn't hold the house either.

You want to say something helpful. You want to make sense of it. Maybe you even say, "God has a reason for everything."

But the words feel thin. You hear yourself say them, and you know they aren't enough. Nothing you say can give her back what she's lost. You can't explain her life to her. You can only stand beside her in it, and you're not sure you're doing that well.

Not long after that, her daughter begins using drugs. The divorce has hurt her deeply, and she isn't handling it well. This time you don't try to explain anything. You cry with your friend and hold her. You pray.

That's all you know to do.

Then she calls you one day, crying. She's been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It doesn't look good.

You pray with her over the phone. A few months later, you're sitting beside her in the hospital. She's lost so much, and now she's asking you why God has allowed it all to happen.

And you say, "I don't know."

You don't know why this has happened to her. You don't know why it happened now. You don't know why one loss followed another. You don't know how long she has left.

That doesn't mean you know nothing about God.

There's a difference between admitting that you don't know God's private purposes and pretending that you do.

She isn't asking you to explain God. She's asking you to stay.

Isaiah 55:8–9 reminds us that God's thoughts and ways are higher than ours. Deuteronomy 29:29 tells us that the secret things belong to the Lord, while He has revealed what we need to trust and obey Him.

Those verses don't explain why your friend has cancer, and they don't make her pain smaller. They aren't a neat answer you can hand her in the middle of a hospital room.

But Scripture does tell you who God is.

You know He isn't careless. He is near to the brokenhearted (Psalm 34:18). Even in the valley of the shadow of death (Psalm 23:4), He doesn't leave His people alone.

You don't use those truths to explain away her pain. You don't say them as if they'll make everything better.

You simply stay.

You take her hand. You pray. You weep with her. You tell her the truth.

"I don't know why this is happening. But I know God has not stopped being God. And I am here with you."

Sometimes "I don't know" is the most faithful answer we can give. It is not a failure of faith. It is the beginning of humility.