Sorrow is never so convenient as to come in the season we wish, for we wish that it is in the season that never comes. We can not choose which storms of grief we bear or when these winds of mourning will blow over our fields but we can choose how we ride them out. This is our wonderful gift to God, that is, to let out a wounded song of praise in the midst of blistering pain. This pitiful whimper is perhaps our greatest earthy look at the Majesty of God. For under the breakers of God’s sovereignty we lift our hands in surrender, not to an understanding, but to a trusting of God in its absence.