When a Child Laments
or, “why did God let our baby die?”
It took our first-born son, “E1,” seven years and six months to stumble upon one of the most difficult questions for those confronting the problem of pain and suffering. Here’s the context. About a month ago, my wife miscarried our third child. Given that we were visiting family in the Midwest over the Father’s Day weekend, we decided to announce the baby’s arrival to friends and family prior to the first ultrasound.
A week later, my wife found about the miscarriage at her ultrasound appointment. In addition to the sadness and shame about losing the baby, I also confronted the dread of having to break the news with our two sons. There’s something uniquely heartbreaking about sharing news that will erode a bit of the innocence that kids carry with them prior to being “mugged by reality.”
As expected, our second son, “E2,” didn’t fully grasp the gravity of the news. Having requested a baby sister, bunk beds, and a puppy, he was content to wait a bit longer for item 1 (as well as item 3; bunk beds were an easier sell). E1, however, was more circumspect about the news. He was clearly uncomfortable at the sight of both his parents crying and decided to internally process the news by retreating to his bedroom to listen to an audiobook.
A few weeks later, however, E1’s internal monologue spilled out in a seemingly unrelated argument about why he had to clean his room. Halfway through the conversation, he blurts out, “well God doesn’t answer my prayers anyway. I prayed lots of times for a new baby, but the baby died.” All of the sudden, E1 decided to raise the stake and push all the chips into the center of the table. For my part, I was most concerned about trying not to screw up this important conversation.
For what it’s worth, I think Amy and I handled the situation well. From what I recalled, we combined one part “we don’t know,” with another part, “Jesus is our suffering servant and knows exactly what it’s like to lose a loved one.” As a proud alumnus of a certain Christian Reformed college in the Midwest, I resisted the urge to pull Nick Wolterstorff’s Lament for a Son off the bookshelf. Maybe when he’s 17 instead of 7?1
But what’s most interesting, however, was part two of the conversation that came up at the dinner table later that evening. Bored with the obligatory pre-dinner prayer of “Dear Jesus, thank you for our food, etc., etc.,” I recommended that we complain to God about our situation. The fancier theological term for a complaint prayer is lament. As Mark Vroegop2 explains, “Lament is a prayer in pain that leads to trust… Lament typically asks at least two questions: (1) ‘Where are you, God?’ (2) ‘If you love me, why is this happening?’”
In the Bible, most laments follow a four-fold scaffolding, as demonstrated in Psalm 77:
Turn – “I cry aloud to God, aloud to God, and he will here me.” (v.v. 1-2)
Complain – “Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has he in anger shut up his compassion?” (v. 9)
Ask – “Then I said, ‘I will appeal to this, to the years of the right hand of the Most High.’” (v. 10)
Trust – “Your way, O God, is holy. What god is great like our God?” (v. 13)
Amy and I offered our own brief and messy modified of a lament prayer as our boys watched with half confusion and half amusement. Lord willing, our example will provide something for them to reflect on in the coming years.
David Bentley Hart’s treatment of natural evil, however, is best saved for Orthodox-curious philosophy majors looking to rebel against their Evangelical parents.
Yes, he’s another member of Grand Rapid’s “Reformed mafia.”