Equip: The wince beside the joy

CAUTION: This article references natural disasters and trauma.

We conclude our brief journey as we wrestle with how to pray during and after a natural disaster that became an overwhelming tragedy in the Texas Hill Country in 2025. At the same time, we pray in the present moment for uncertain outcomes from the recent, devastating earthquakes in Venezuela and new flooding in the Texas Hill Country.

We prayed through the darkness of the flooding. We have expressed lament at our losses. And we have wrestled with prayers of faith when God seemed to have been silent. He may still seem silent to some.

We are now at the juncture of prayers during the ongoing recovery from the historic Hill Country flood last year and this year while the community rebuilds and our South American neighbors dig through rubble with their shovels and heavy equipment of hope.

This is the moment of opportunity when our worst fears can become hope and renewed trust in God’s presence.

We have known endings.

We have wandered through a wilderness.

And now, slowly and tremblingly, we begin again.

Several years ago, I performed a marriage ceremony for a couple entering a second marriage. The bride had survived an abusive relationship. This new relationship seemed a gift of grace after years of pain.

As the officiant, I had a privileged position near the couple as I led them through their vows. Joy radiated from their faces, and their eyes danced with each other’s as they recited their vows. I noticed something else when I saw a wince and tears on the bride’s face. That experience gave me a powerful picture of what a new beginning is really like.

A new beginning is not a garden party. There are winces and tears, as memories of the ending and wilderness that brought us here return to us.

What happens after silence

In our new beginning, we wrestle with: “How in the world can we ever be joyful, let alone happy, again as we carry the sorrow and pain of our trauma?” We live in the tension of joy and sorrow existing in our lives at the same time.

Hebrews 12:2 (KJV) gives an example:

“Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God” (emphasis mine).

The answer is, yes, joy and sorrow have lived together since the beginning. Even the risen Christ, in all the triumph of resurrection and exaltation at the right hand of the Father, bears visible scars.

Mary and Martha experienced that moment standing with Jesus before the sealed tomb of their brother Lazarus: “Lord, if you had been here …”

We have repeated Martha’s plaintive question, too: “Things could have been different.”

And they are different because he, Jesus, is with us. “I am the resurrection and the life …” With white-knuckled hands, we cling to that promise in our realized griefs.

And that is where we meet the Father in prayer. We bring our brokenness, our deep sorrow, as well as our glimpses of joy, in petition and praise. Hope is rekindled. We taste a bit of resurrection that promises one day to fully make all things new.

The time nears when God makes our joy complete. Yet for now, we still shed salty tears as memories of past darkness flash unexpectedly before us. We wince. And then, sometimes quietly, glimpses of joy flicker with the light of a new day.

Redemption and scars

In Revelation 4 and 5, I wonder whether John himself paused in awe when he saw the Lamb standing, looking as though he had been slain. Even in glory, the marks of his sacrifice remained visible and indelibly etched in his body, hands, and feet. Redemption had not erased the wounds. Redemption transformed them.

So, we pray on the other side of midnight, beyond our tragedy and losses, lifting our alleluias. That is our greatest experience of redemptive continuity.

Redemption does not erase the story that came before. God carries us forward, weaving grief, memory, and hope into a new chapter of grace. We hold in tension for now our hope and grief.

Our prayers begin to integrate the rupture of the flood, and now earthquakes, into our spiritual lives. We honor the legacies of our loved ones lost in the flood, so they will never be defined solely by the tragedy.

New beginning

And that is the best of a new beginning, as individuals are brought together by God’s Spirit, sharing common grief, and in the strength of community, rebuilding their relationship with God through prayer, even if they do not understand the mystery of God and evil.

Not everyone arrives at this new beginning at the same pace. Some still live beneath clouds of grief and silence. If that is your story, do not mistake delay for abandonment. God remains present even when joy has not yet returned.

Whether you are rejoicing in renewed faith or remain in what feels like an unending spiritual wasteland, the Scriptures promise us his presence: “Lo, I am with you unto the end of the age.”

For the one survivor, a wince marks what has been redeemed out of the tragedy. Along with similar survivors, they discover after lament:

We do heal.
We do hope.
We do rejoice.

And sometimes, right beside the joy, there is still a wince.

That is the grace of a new beginning.

Prayer in the new beginning

Father,
Until that day,
Teach us to rejoice with tears still in our eyes.
Teach us to remember without being imprisoned by memory.
Teach us to hope while we still carry scars.
And remind us the risen Christ still bears his scars.

Amen.

Ernest Izard, Ph.D., is founder and president of HeartMend™ Trauma Ministries Inc., a church-based nonprofit that equips churches to train laypeople—Courageous Christians—to listen well to the stories trauma survivors tell. The views expressed in this resource article are those of the author.