Even in the Worst, God’s Arms Are Wide

Some stories don’t just tug at the heart.
They stab it.

This past week, as fireworks lit the sky and grills smoked with July 4th cheer—
something else happened in Central Texas.

In minutes, everything changed.
The skies opened. The river rose.
And lives were swept away.

At this writing, more than a hundred people are gone.
Many still missing.

But what makes it almost unbearable?
Many of the victims were young girls.
Eight. Nine years old.
Just little girls making memories at summer camp.

I have a granddaughter who’s nine.
I don’t even want to imagine…

And it hits closer than the news.
Because we know people who know people.
Classmates. Soccer teammates. Church friends.

It’s not just tragedy.
It’s personal.

Back in 1950, Albert Einstein wrote a letter to a man who had just lost his son to polio.
They didn’t know each other. But grief crosses boundaries like that.

Einstein wrote this:

“A human being is a part of the whole…
He experiences himself as something separated from the rest—a kind of optical delusion…
The striving to free oneself from this delusion is the one issue of true religion…
Not to nourish the delusion but to try to overcome it is the way to reach peace of mind.”

Or to put it another way, as poet John Donne said centuries before:

“Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind.”

We are connected.
All of us.

And when even one is lost, we all feel it.

Tragedy has a way of pressing questions from our lips—
Why?
But all we hear back… is silence.

And in that silence, the noise of blame begins—
From reporters. From politicians. From people who want to look wise or in control.

But blame can’t rebuild a camp.
Or undo July 4th.

Families will bury their children.
Scars will remain.
Camps will eventually reopen. With more rules. More safety.

But the ache?
It stays.

Years ago, my daughter had a friend.
A good kid. Sixteen.
He died in a head-on crash with a dump truck.

A friend asked me what to say to his daughters.
What do you say when the world turns dark?

I told him what I still believe today:

Life is precious. Waste none of it.
Hug your kids. Even the bratty teenager.
Store up memories.
Teach them about Jesus—
Because this life isn’t all there is.

We break for the brokenhearted.
We ache alongside the aching.

But even in the worst…
God’s arms remain wide.
And they’re big enough to hold us all.