The Unfairness of It All

I've balked at the unfairness of our suffering. Why us? Why our daughter?

Searing pain pierces my heart when I see and think of other parents allowed to watch ALL their children grow up: families who will never know this cruel degree of pain. I don't begrudge them. I would never in a million years wish this pain upon another. But the unfairness of it all slaps me in the face, over and over again. The repulsive unfairness of living in a broken world where pain and suffering are not shared in equal measure. 

I recently was reading Matthew 20: 1-15. Isn't it amazing how scripture never changes, but as our circumstances change we are given an entirely new perspective? That being said, my heart is not to apply my circumstances to scripture, but the scripture to my circumstances. 

For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. He agreed to pay them a denarius for the day and sent them into his vineyard. About nine in the morning he went out and saw others standing in the marketplace doing nothing. He told them, "You also go and work in my vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right." So they went. He went out again about noon and about three in the afternoon and did the same thing. About five in the afternoon he went out and found still others standing around. He asked them, "Why have you been standing here all day long doing nothing?" "Because no one has hired us," they answered. He said to them, "You also go and work in my vineyard." When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his foreman, "Call the workers and pay them their wages, beginning with the last ones hired and going on to the first." The workers who were hired about five in the afternoon came and each received a denarius. So when those came who were hired first, they expected to receive more. But each one of them also received a denarius. When they received it, they began to grumble against the landowner. "These who were hired last worked only one hour," they said, "and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the work and the heat of the day." But he answered one of them, "I am not being unfair to you, friend. Didn't you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you. Don't I have the right to do what I want with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?" 

Like these workers in Mathew I scream in protest, "this isn't fair!" Why are we called to "bear the burden of the work in the heat of the day"- to bear the burden of grief over a child and the searing heat of life without her, toiling through grief towards healing? "God, send a gentle breeze this way," my heart cries. 

Some will know years of suffering or persevering through the hottest of fires; some just days. For some, their fire never gets this hot. Therefore my flesh and heart cry out, "it's not fair, Lord!". 

Like these workers, am I envious because He is generous? By generous I mean excusing or protecting some from this particular heat or toiling through this quagmire of grief.  

I have loved Him, labored for Him (albeit imperfectly) for many years. He called me "early in the morning" and I agreed to the will, to the hope, to the plan laid before me. So many spend so long doing "nothing" but standing around, and I'm tempted to be jealous of their "wage" offered by the Lord. They've been exempt, not from tough times or sufferings of sort, but from suffering of THIS sort. They don't want my heartache. I don't want theirs or mine for them. 

In my heart, I realize I must be careful not to expect some greater reward because of the toil, the suffering in the midday heat, expected of me. I must guard my heart, and where I can't He is invited to do so: to guard my heart against comparison. What a sick game we humans play in comparing our suffering, as though we could ever really understand another's suffering. No one knows my pain because they didn't have the relationship I had with Abigail. And I know not theirs. Only the Master, only our God can enter into our deepest pain. 

It's the heat of the day. Some will not join this labor until the sun goes down. And I must celebrate for them, with them in equal measure at the end. I want to celebrate the generosity of our God, and I'm relying on Him to help me do this joyfully. 

I love the Master. He's always been fair (more than fair) to me. Generous with me. And I love Him, even if I don't fully understand Him. And where my love and trust fall short, as they often do, I beg Him to help me love Him deeper still.