Last Sunday, I attended the funeral wake of a 24 year old man who was shot to death just outside of his house.  I learned of his murder on Thursday, March 22.  I planned to go to the wake the next day, Friday but I got stuck in traffic and had I proceeded to the funeral wake, I would have missed the last day of classes at the Bible School.  I always gave a culminating lecture and issued a challenge to  my students: I never miss the last day of class.

I advised the president of the young people’s fellowship to go to the funeral wake en masse on Sunday, March 25 at 2pm.  I told them that I would meet them there. When I got there, the church members were already singing Because He Lives.  One of my students saw me and called me over to sit in the front with the relatives.

When the mother of the 24-year old man saw me, she broke down in tears.  All she could say was “Masakit, masakit.” (“It hurts, it hurts.”)  I hugged her and I broke down in tears, too. I couldn’t help it.  I am a mother, too.  I can understand a bit of her pain: I would cry, too if someone hurt my son.

The mother was a member of Project 8 BBC.  She kept saying to me, “I know he is in heaven.  I know I will see him again some day.  But it hurts.”  I agreed with her.  Even when you know that your son is in heaven, his death still hurts.  Even when you have hope that you will see him again one day, his death still hurts.

It hurts because she loved her son.  It hurts because she already misses her son.  It hurts because she feels guilt that she was not able to protect her boy when he needed it most.  It hurts because she knew her son was in pain before he died.  It hurts because she is so angry with the person who shot him.  It hurts because she invested so much time and affection on her son only to have someone shoot him on the street.

What can a mother do with this pain?  A mother will cry.  A mother will cry and cry.  People will think that you are being melodramatic, but you cannot help it. You can only cry.  You cry when you are alone.  You cry when you suddenly remember his name.  You cry when you see his picture.  You cry when you see his place at the table is empty.  You cry anytime.  You cry all the time. You cry to anyone who will listen.  You cry even when no one will listen.

And even when it doesn’t make much sense to others, you cry to God.  You cry to God because when all others have become exhausted watching you cry, God understands your pain perfectly:  God lost his own Son.

God’s only perfect sinless Son was murdered on the cross of Calvary so God understands the  loss of a son.  God’s Son was kind and gentle.  He was gracious and loving.  But He died a most cruel and humiliating death.

I told the mother to just cry.  I told her to cry until she can’t cry anymore: it’s the only thing she can do when she is in pain.  But she can always know that she is not alone.  She is not the only mother who has lost a son.  She is not the only parent who has lost a son.  In supreme condescension, God allowed men to crucify His Son.  God will understand her tears.  God will understand her pain.