Along the way, it won’t all be okay.

How? Why? Lord, come quickly.

Hello!

Before we jump into today’s poems … welcome!

My name is Tanner. I am an author, spoken word poet, and speaker. Every week I share a few hopeful poems, prayers, and reflections. If you enjoy the words I share, I’d love to have you support this ministry at the monthly, annual, or founding member level.

📸: U.S. Coast Guard handout/Reuters

Hope in the Heaviness

I’ve been trying to tune out the news.
Flooding. Camp Mystic. Texas. Destruction. Death.

“Did you see the latest?” my wife asked.
“I can’t look. I just can’t,” I told her.
I don’t know the death toll, only that it’s already too high.

I quickly scroll past the headlines because I can’t stomach it, not even the stories about the heroes.

Every time I pray about this tragedy, all I can offer is a jumbled plea:
How?
Why?
Lord, come quickly.

I tell God it’s not supposed to be this way, and I know He knows that.
I tell Him I’m ready for peace, ready for all of us to be home and safe.
He knows that too.

I can’t stop thinking about the children.
And the camp staff.
And the families.
The parents.
The siblings.
The friends.
The communities.

And I know God can’t stop thinking about them either.

Death, tragedy, grief—they ripple out and alter everything in their path.
I can’t imagine the weight the grieving are carrying or the new reality they are wrestling.
I hate this for them.

How?
Why?
Lord, come quickly.

I hate what this loss means for their future—how their world has been reshaped into something they never asked for.

For years I’ve said that in all that is heavy, there is hope.
But right now?
It just feels heavy.

Last week, I sat across from a friend at a diner—bottomless coffee, biscuits and gravy, catching up.
He’s going through things.
I’m going through things.
We looked around, knowing everyone in that diner was going through something too.

It reminded me—
Walk lightly.
Stay compassionate.
Offer mercy.
Cling to hope and offer it freely, even when it feels like the faint flicker of a candle in a heavy, heavy season.

And that’s what this is.
A heavy, heavy season.

And yet, in all that is heavy, there is hope, because hope cannot be snuffed out.

Hope remains.

That’s just what hope does.

It cannot be uninvited from this strange, beautiful, brutal party we call life.

And that’s a good thing.
Hope isn’t loud or forceful, but it’s steady.
It’s true.
It’s honest.

Hope reminds me that I’ve been caught in the heaviness before, and that it carried me, growing and changing me along the way, to the other side.

Hope will carry me again, just like it will change me again.
And again.
And again.

Hope is the promise that holds the pain.
The strength that stares down the impossible and whispers, Still, there’s a way.
The quiet voice that says, One day it will all be okay, knowing those words seem impossible.

It is the light that darkness cannot overcome, no matter how deep the night.

Hope lets us pray:
How?
Why?
Lord, come quickly.

And hope keeps us grounded in what is true.
And in the heaviness this is what I know to be true:

Along the way, it won’t all be okay.
But God brings light to the darkness, mercy to the madness,
and reminds us that one day Christ will make everything okay—
even if everything isn’t okay today.

With hope,

Tanner

A Prayer

God, be near.
We don’t have the words,
just broken hearts
trying to hold onto what has been lost.

We lift to You
each name,
each heart.
You know them — every one.
You love them more than we can.

For the families waiting —
give them strength to hold on,
hope that presses in
even when the night does not end.

For those who search,
steady their hands.

For those who mourn,
wrap them in peace
that makes no sense
and does not let go.

God, be near in the heartbreak.
Be near in the darkness.
Be near in the questions
that don’t have answers.
You promised to be close to the brokenhearted —
come close now,
and always.

Let Your light shine
where the world has gone dim.

And for the families
who have received the unthinkable news,
God, hold them.
Surround them.
Give them hope
when hoping feels impossible.

God, be near.

Amen.

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