Why do you call me Naomi, since the Lord has witnessed against me and the Almighty has afflicted me? Ruth 1:21

Naomi’s words sound familiar. Job once said the same thing: “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.” Their voices echo across time — two weary souls, stripped of what they loved most, trying to make sense of loss under the gaze of a sovereign God. Both remind us that everything, even the arrows of the enemy, must pass through the hands of God before they ever reach us.

When I sit with that truth, something in me rises in protest. It offends my sense of fairness.  If everything passes through His hands, then why doesn’t He stop it? Why doesn’t love protect what it cherishes? He says I am engraved on the palm of His hand and that image is so intimate, so tender. How can He cherish me, yet allow me to be hurt?

In the fall, God conceived a way not to balance good and evil, but to utterly overcome evil with good. He did not design them as equal forces — He designed redemption to tip the scales. The good He brings out of suffering is not compensation; it’s transformation. It multiplies, redeeming not only what was lost, but also who we become in the process. The tragedy is that not everyone will taste this miracle. Why? Because the key that unlocks it is faith, the defiant choice to believe in His love when everything visible argues against it.  Faith is the courage to hand God the jagged pieces and whisper, “I still believe You love me.”

“God, here is my story — the one I wish had gone differently. I choose to trust that You love me, even here, even now.” When I’m able to say this through my tears, only then will I see redemption. Faith is most profound when others hear me praise God, even though they fail to understand why in the world I would do such a thing!

I see You, waiting in the ashes, coaxing me toward trust so You can redeem my story.
Amen.