Our handsome son, David, had turned two in April. Blond and blue-eyed, bright and full of life, he was the delight of our lives, a precious gift of God. But in September of that year, the joy my wife and I shared was shattered by the words of David’s pediatrician: “Your son has leukemia.” He went on to explain that since David’s leukemia was incurable, he would die within a year or so. Crushed by this devastating diagnosis, we took our beloved son home, trying to embrace the unbelievable news that he was dying. The doctor had offered us only a thread of hope. There is always, he said, the possibility that researchers will discover a cure in time to save David. But we had no evidence that such a discovery was imminent. Dean and I prayed a lot during those painful 233 days between the diagnosis in September and David’s death the next May. But our prayers were different. Dean prayed the submissive prayer of a tough realist, asking God to give us the strength to accept the inevitable and stand up under the strain. I prayed the stubborn prayer of untested optimism, pleading desperately for a miraculous healing. But, even now, years later, I am not sure I believed that God would heal David. God answered both of our prayers. He heard a mother’s honest plea, and gave her strength she had never had before. It was a quality of patient endurance, tinged with hope, that never ceased growing. The strength she received carried her through many other trials. It is not irony to say that God produced in her a toughness of spirit, and a gentleness of heart, that can hardly be self-willed by anyone. My own prayer God answered by saying no. I thought at first it was a harsh, uncaring no. When it became obvious that David would die as the doctor had said, I walked up to the fountain of bitterness, took the cup in my hands, and lifted it to my lips. I saw no reason not to drink it. There seemed no sense in it all. If God was love, if he really was omnipotent, then why would he let our precious little boy die? Three years old, bright-eyed, intelligent, he was full of energy. Life was just beginning. He had done no wrong, so why should he have to suffer such pain and death? Why? My brain burned with the question: Why? During the last six months of David’s life, I was a student at Vanderbilt University Divinity School in Nashville. One of my subjects was “Systematic Theology,” taught by Dr. Nels F. S. Ferre. Nobody ever struggled more desperately than I did to understand the system, and to see how the suffering of the innocent could fit into a system that defined God as love. My struggle was compounded by my negative attitude toward Professor Ferre. I had been born in the Bible belt of Alabama, nurtured in the faith by Bible-believing Methodists, and called to preach under the influence of solidly conservative preachers. Whether I was taught it, or just caught it, I became quite early suspicious of liberal preachers and theologians. I presumed that disliking liberals was necessary to maintain my conservative image. Dr. Ferre was a liberal, so even before I met him, I disliked him. Since I was bewildered and hurting because of my son’s suffering, I am sure this intensified my disapproval. Ferre insisted that his students gain an understanding of his theology. To do this, we had to read all of his books and write a report on each one. In my reviews I took special pains to blister Ferre with my perceptive insights into his gross theological errors, his radical departure from New Testament faith, and his lifeless ivory tower style. The good doctor’s reaction surprised and aggravated me. He made no response to my hypercritical reports and consistently gave me high grades. His attitude toward me personally was equally unexpected. He was gracious, kind, and obviously concerned for David, Dean and me. While I thought his theology was quite unorthodox, I was forced to face the uncomfortable fact that his spirit had all the earmarks of a deeply authentic Christian. The clinching evidence came when one day he called on us, and sat on the floor to play with David in our dingy, rented house. It was while he was sitting on the floor playing with a sick child, not expecting anything in return for his good will, that I had to admit to myself that he was truly a man of God. Since that afternoon I have had very little concern whether a man is a liberal or a conservative in his theology; how he lives out his faith is what really matters. Other people called on us in those agonizing days of waiting. They all tried to be helpful, though the comfort of some pushed me even closer to drinking the cup of bitterness. More than one person counseled us to accept David’s plight as the will of God. Inwardly, I thought, if God is like that, I could hate him.” One woman, sincere but misinformed, suggested we should be pleased that God was taking David, for he probably needed another little boy in the Angelic Choir. I thought to myself, “I could hate such a God.” Professor Ferre had still another surprise in store for us. David died in my arms, at home, early one morning. To our amazement, Ferre was the first man to come to our house. Not only that, he was cheerful and smiling, almost radiant. In our bedroom, Ferre took David’s lifeless body and lifted it up as though he was presenting him to God while praying a beautiful prayer. Ferre sat and talked with us for a while, comforting us. I have long forgotten what he said, except one thing that is burned into my memory. With his arms around Dean and me, he smiled and said, “I know how much your hearts hurt this morning. I just wanted to come and tell you that God hurts just like you hurt right now.” The thought leaped into my mind, “I could love a God like that!” Now, looking back, I think I know why I did not drink from the fountain of bitterness. While I was standing there, holding the cup of bitterness in my hands, God sent to me a man who loved me and gently lifted to my parched lips a cup of the cool water of faith and hope. And I praise God that what might have been a day of bitter sadness was actually the most important of those 233 days. Thanks be to God, the loving Father of our Lord Jesus, who hurts when his children hurt. Glory!