Day 195

2 Kings 11–12 | Matthew 14:1–21 | Psalm 82

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I’ve been asking God a hard question lately.

It’s one I’ve heard on the news. Felt in my body. Watched in people I love.

Why do bad things happen to good people?

Why would He let thousands lose everything in a flood?

Why would He let someone betray the friend who always showed up?

Why would He let the prophet die, the child get cancer, the faithful suffer?

Why would a good God let a saw blade tear through the dominant hand of a man just trying to build a mantel for his closest friend?

I wasn’t rebelling that day. I wasn’t running. I was giving a gift.

And He let the blade hit anyway.

That question doesn’t get easier with time. It still quiets me. Still breaks me. I still think about that moment—nine months later—every single day. I suspect I always will.

And the truth is, my life has moved forward. I’ve adapted. I’ve learned to live with a different hand. I’ve found new ways to grip, to write, to carry, to serve. But the scar isn’t just on my skin. It’s in my memory. My identity. My theology.

Because when I started this yearlong journey of Scars & Sovereignty, I thought I’d talk about my hand every day. I thought that’s what healing would look like—revisiting the moment until I understood it.

But most days, the hand isn’t the headline anymore.

Because it turns out, God is healing far more than my grip.

He’s healing my heart.

He’s reshaping what I thought surrender looked like. What justice looked like. What His timing looks like.

Because it’s not just the injury anymore. It’s everything that followed.

The job I lost. The roles I’ve applied to. The rejection emails. The silence.

The upcoming surgery on that same hand—this time without employment. Without insurance.

The tension of trying to be strong for my family while wondering how we’ll make it.

The ache of asking for daily bread while longing for long-term clarity.

I used to think I was walking through one trial. One wound. One redemptive arc.

But lately, it feels like I’m carrying them all at once.

And sometimes I wonder if God’s forgotten just how heavy it’s getting.

When Justice Feels Delayed

Today’s reading doesn’t flinch from this ache.

2 Kings 11 opens with blood.

Athaliah—the queen mother—murders the entire royal line just to seize power. It’s vile. Treacherous. And somehow… permitted.

But it’s not the whole story.

Because hidden in a back room of the temple, one child survives. Joash.

God doesn’t stop the slaughter.

But He preserves the seed.

And seven years later, that seed becomes a king. Because of the courage of one priest, one nursemaid, and a God who refuses to forget His promises—even when the world forgets His justice.

It’s not immediate vindication. It’s a quiet one. A hidden one.

But it’s there.

The God Who Grieves Before He Provides

Then Matthew 14 tells of John the Baptist—the man who prepared the way for Jesus—beheaded at a party for speaking truth.

Jesus doesn’t stop it.

He hears about it, withdraws… and grieves.

But then?

He sees the crowds.

He moves toward them.

And He feeds them.

Before the miracle came the mourning.

Before provision came pain.

That’s the rhythm we see again and again.

God doesn’t always prevent the worst.

But He doesn’t walk away from it either.

Maybe your pain isn’t a saw blade. Maybe it’s a diagnosis. A betrayal. A silence that won’t break.

Maybe you’re asking the same question I still do: Why would God allow this?

You’re not alone.

The Ache That Prays for Justice

Psalm 82 says what so many of us feel:

“How long will you judge unjustly and show partiality to the wicked?” (v2)

It’s a psalm of protest. A cry for God to act.

Not against us. But for us.

To rise. To defend. To judge rightly. To remember the ones who keep getting crushed.

And it ends with this plea:

“Arise, O God, judge the earth…” (v8)

Because if He doesn’t act… who will?

If He’s not just… what hope do we have?

But the psalmist still believes He is.

That justice delayed is not justice denied.

That silence doesn’t mean absence.

That God’s hand—even when hidden—is never idle.

The Mantel That Was Worth the Pain

It’s been nine months since that saw ripped through my hand.

And I still don’t know why He let it happen.

But here’s what I do know:

That mantel got hung.

That friendship got stronger.

That pain made space for presence.

I couldn’t finish building it with my hands—so we bought one on Amazon and gave it to them that Christmas. And now, every time I walk into their home and see it above their fireplace, I smile. Because it’s more than a mantel. It’s a marker. A reminder that love adapts. That friendship held. That God still provides—even when the plan changes.

The prayers. The people. The provision I never would have seen otherwise.

It didn’t make the wound worth it. But it made it sacred.

And maybe that’s what God is doing in more stories than we know.

Preserving Joash.

Grieving John.

Feeding five thousand.

Sustaining a dad whose hand still aches and grip still fails—but whose faith is held tighter than ever.

And not just sustaining him through the hand injury—but through everything else.

Because the blade wasn’t the end of the hardship.

Since then, life has become heavier, not lighter.

More loss. More limbo. More waiting.

More moments when I whisper, “Lord, how much more?”

But maybe the miracle isn’t in the absence of those questions.

Maybe it’s in the fact that I’m still asking them—to Him.

Still praying. Still hoping. Still trusting.

Even when I don’t understand His timing.

Even when the waiting feels endless.

Even when the justice still feels hidden.

More Than a Scar: The Justice I Didn’t Know I Needed

When I began this yearlong journey of Scars & Sovereignty, I thought each post would be about my hand.

But I see it now:

This isn’t a daily chronicle of physical recovery.

It’s a journey into trust.

Into dependence.

Into the kind of healing that doesn’t just stitch skin—but softens hearts, humbles pride, and loosens my grip on control.

I’m not just recovering function.

I’m learning faith.

And maybe that’s the justice I didn’t know I needed.

A God who doesn’t just fix what broke, but uses the break to remake me from the inside out.

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Lord, I don’t always understand Your justice or Your timing. I confess that sometimes it feels late, unfair, or invisible. But I believe that You are not slow. You are not absent. You are not cruel. You are the God who preserves the seed, who weeps beside the grieving, who feeds the hungry, who uses wounds to make room for wonder. You’re the God who sees the dad without insurance, the one reapplying for jobs, the one typing with half a grip and half a plan—and the one who couldn’t finish the mantel he set out to build, but found another way to bless. Thank You for letting me give that mantel anyway, store-bought and wrapped in love, and for the quiet joy I feel every time I see it hanging above their fireplace. It reminds me that even when the plan changes, Your provision doesn’t. I still think about that day. I probably always will. But more than understanding it, I want to trust You in it. Because You haven’t just been healing my hand. You’ve been healing my heart. And I surrender it all—scars and sovereignty—to You again today. Amen.