This week has been somber. The kind of week in which all words fail but at the same time demands to be written.

On Monday, a fellow university alum passed away suddenly due to an allergic reaction to bee stings. She was five months pregnant, and her little one was also lost. This woman leaves behind a husband and four other beautiful children.

As I type this, a guy I went to high school with is in his final battle with an illness that has plagued him for years. He has a wife and two kids.

The amount of suffering experienced by so many in these recent days has been overwhelming.

As the news has rolled in this week, I found myself attempting to keep my sorrow at bay. When we hear of such great tragedy, it’s tempting, it’s easy, to pretend that we aren’t really affected by it. That since it occurred in another family, or across the country, or across the world, it doesn’t really touch us. We try to avoid the pain that human solidarity naturally demands by attempting to convince ourselves that maybe, just maybe, it’s not really happening.

I spent the beginning of the week doing just that. Running from the reality of the suffering. But I knew I couldn’t run for long.

Yesterday morning, I went to change George’s diaper. I laid him on our bed and spent a few minutes playing around with him, kissing his feet, making him giggle, and exploring his little features.

And it hit me.

The sorrow rolled mercilessly over my heart like mighty waves. I allowed myself to feel the weight of this grief I’d been witnessing, this grief that I’d been experiencing. I tried to continue to smile at George through my tears and prayed in vain that he would never encounter any suffering or heartache during his life. I contemplated the horrific crosses that these families must now bear and my heart grew unbearably heavy.

I glanced up at the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus that hangs above my bed. I examined his loving and peaceful gaze, His ignited Heart exposed and presented to the viewer, offering mercy and salvation. But my heart was hardened. I was angry. I was angry that these families were suffering so. I was so angry with God that these good people were being asked to endure the unthinkable.

So I shot Him an accusatory question: “Do You have anything to say for their suffering?”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought.”, I jested as I went back to my diaper changing duties.

But then a quote from St. Teresa of Avila popped in my head, and I knew that therein lies the answer to my question.

I have a degree in theology: I can explain the meaning and purpose of suffering until I’m blue in the face. And I know the redemptive, salvific, virtuous, and unitive nature of suffering is undoubtedly true. However, when I encounter such terrible suffering in reality, what it means to suffer becomes nearly inexplicable.

God, this kind of suffering sucks.

Therefore, this quote remains my hope. Those who bear the greatest suffering are the ones who are brought closest, deepest, into the Heart of Christ which burns with love for us. That same Heart that is constantly offered to us remains the unshakeable refuge for those who mourn.

Many saints suffered incredible losses, and it was often through those losses that their spirituality was taken to an entirely different level.

So as we, the human community, bear these great sufferings with our brothers and sisters, I remain hopeful for this reason. My one consolation as I ponder their terrible sorrow is that they are in the company of Simon of Cyrene, remaining in incomparable intimacy with Our Lord in monumental moments of vulnerability.

Please keep these families in your prayers. You all have such selfless hearts, and I know your prayers will do so much good. Thank you!