My stories often begin with the death of a loved one or of a relationship. Perhaps it’s a subconscious wrestling with my father’s death when I was thirteen.

Though I want my stories to give hope, I see them as a slice from the characters’ lives. They have come from hard times and easy times and will go on to more of the same. Though I like my stories to end on a note of a victory won, an understanding gained, every wrong is not righted.

Hannah, in Searching for Home, resolves grief from her fiancé’s death and finds meaning, but his death remains a tragedy. God transforms wrong; he does not wave a magic wand that obliterates it.

The question of the suffering of innocents is probably the most difficult of all for Christians. You know the question: if God is both all powerful and all good, why does he allow suffering?

I do not presume to answer this question, but I think invalid the assumption that if God is both good and powerful, then he would not allow suffering. It assumes that if you love someone, you never cause them pain.

That, it seems to me, is false.

When my children were small, I took them to a giant who stuck needles in them. No baby or even young child could possibly understand about vaccines and the antibodies that develop from the pain inflicted with the giving of the vaccine. They have no conception that it protects them from diseases that could kill them: diphtheria or whooping cough or measles.

I don’t claim this illustration answers all theological questions, or even a minute part of them, concerning the world’s pain and evil. I only wish to suggest that we don’t just allow pain, we sometimes inflict it on those we love because of that love.