Double rainbow

To be honest, I wrote this post (see below) on Sunday night, and I was just going to leave it as a draft. But clearly God had other plans because my dear friend, Livie, sent me this picture last night. 

It is 7:25 pm. The girls have been in bed for over 30 minutes. I thought it was surely 10:30 pm.  

Matt always kind of dreaded the newborn phase because of the lack of sleep and exhaustion that inevitably accompany the first week or year with baby. Yet, the exhaustion of grief reaches even further into your soul. There is no surge of adrenaline or joy to lift you momentarily from the fog of sleepy sleeplessness. No tiny smiles or cuddles or smells of newborn freshness. It is empty and hollow and physically painful. But it is NOT hopeless. And then it is the other little things that you hold on to -- your 5 year old willingly holding your hand; your 6 year old, petrified of new things, choosing to try hot lunch; your friends and family unable to stay home because they love you so much. 

And yet, it doesn't stop the tears when your daughters are writing notes to their deceased sister -- it is just so wrong.  But there is so, so, so much wrong with the world. Why are there 230,000 parents whose hearts were broken this week by violence, destruction, tragedy, and death? I can give a theologically correct answer. I can recall the story of Job and think about how much worse off he was, and while that might help my head, it doesn't heal my heart. 

I clearly need a God who is bigger and greater and stronger and more powerful than death to come busting in with some healing power. That's it. I can see it faintly through the tears. I can see power and strength and greatness faintly, like the colors of a double rainbow, visible but faint. The brightness of that first rainbow is striking and powerful but the lines of the second - they take your breath away. That's the God that will make himself known no matter how bad things get here. So I'm looking for the double rainbow.