When Words Fail, the Word Never Will
Like many folks, I’ve been processing a lot of questions in the wake of the Central Texas floods.
Why?
Why children?
Why so many children?
Why so many children at summer camp?
Why, God?
Why?
Even though I work with words every day… and even though this blog is usually about how to use them well… some moments remind me that words can only do so much.
The truth is, there really are no words for what happened over the weekend in Central Texas—and for what so many parents, siblings, family members, and friends are going through right now.
It’s truly unimaginable—and I don’t have a tidy way to follow that. But I’ve been thinking a lot about what we can do when words fail.
I try to put things into words
Ask my wife, and she’ll tell you that I try to assign words to everything. If I can name the problem, then I can understand it. And if I understand it, maybe I can handle it better.
But there are some things that don’t fit into language. And when I try to wrap words around them too quickly, they usually fall short.
That day in 1987 is one of them.
I still don’t have words for what happened that day
It was July 11, 1987. My family was driving back home to Texas on I-20 through Ruston, Louisiana, after a beach trip to Florida. My maternal grandparents had joined my mom, dad, brother, and me on our summer vacation. I was 12 years old.
Around 1pm that day, we lost control of our Suburban. After fish-tailing a few times, our vehicle tipped to the right and rolled side-over-side six times before slamming down on the opposite side of the highway.
As the Suburban rolled, my grandfather, grandmother, and I were thrown from the vehicle. And all I remember praying was that God wouldn’t let it hurt when I died. I hit the ground, rolled, and stood up—totally unharmed except for a few scrapes on my hands and knees.
My grandfather was killed in the wreck. My grandmother had serious injuries that healed over time. My brother sustained a severe concussion. Neither of my parents were seriously hurt.
After the wreck, I sat in the ravine with my mom and brother where the Suburban had come to rest. We prayed together while my dad gave my grandfather CPR and the paramedics worked on my grandmother nearby.
Even today, I don’t have any real answers for why the wreck happened—or why my grandfather had to die.
But I can say this:
July 11 was the first time I’d ever cried out to God. And I’m grateful so many people met Jesus because my grandmother talked about him so much—both in the hospital and during her recovery.
That doesn’t give me a neat list of reasons why the wreck happened. But I can say, without question, that God brought good out of it.
A lot of good.
Sometimes the best thing to say is nothing
When Job lost everything, his friends showed up and sat with him. For seven days, they didn’t say a word. Which was probably the best thing they did.
It wasn’t until they started trying to put words to Job’s suffering that they got everything wrong.
There’s a verse in Romans that says, “Weep with those who weep.” Not fix those who weep. Not talk at them. Just show up and share their pain.
Sometimes that’s the best thing we can do when words fail.
Just because God is quiet doesn’t mean he’s absent
There are plenty of times in the Bible when God doesn’t speak. Jesus himself heard silence when cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” before his death.
Even though God had a purpose for what happened on the cross, the pain wasn’t avoided. Jesus suffered and his Father didn’t stop it. And there was no booming voice from heaven explaining why.
I’m learning that God’s silence doesn’t mean he’s absent. I mean, the whole story of the Bible is about a God who moves toward suffering, not away from it. A God who not only enters our pain, but actually carries it.
Jesus wept before he raised Lazarus. He didn’t rush to fix the situation, even though he had the power to. He stood in the grief first.
When our words run out, he doesn’t
In John’s gospel, he calls Jesus “the Word.” This means that everything God wanted to say—everything he is—was spoken through the person of his Son. Not through a theory. Not through an explanation. Through Jesus.
John also writes, “… the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”
This means when I run out of words, I can look to Jesus. Not for easy answers. Not for tidy explanations. For… him.
I love the verse in Romans that says the Holy Spirit prays for us when we can’t—“with groanings too deep for words.” That’s the kind of help we’re given. Not just guidance, but God himself speaking on our behalf.
Jesus didn’t avoid pain—he lived it. He knows what it’s like to suffer, to be alone, to cry out and hear nothing back.
He took on the worst this world can bring, and when he rose from the dead, he didn’t leave the pain behind. He carried the scars with him.
That’s the kind of Savior I trust.
Even in the midst of the whys.
Even when there’s only silence.
The Word never fails. Even when our words do.
*** Visit Texans on Mission to help the ongoing recovery efforts in Central Texas. Their relief teams and chaplains are on the ground to meet practical needs and share the hope of Jesus. ***
