“Jesus wept.” — John 11:35
Two words. One of the shortest verses in the Bible. And yet, I think they teach us one of the most powerful lessons about loving people like Jesus. When Jesus arrived after Lazarus had died, Mary and Martha were grieving the loss of their brother. Here’s what I find so remarkable about this story…
Jesus knew what was coming. He knew He was going to raise Lazarus from the dead. He knew this wasn’t the end of the story. But when He saw their grief, He didn’t rush past their pain to get to the miracle.
He wept.
He met them right where they were. And I think there’s something we can learn from that about how we walk alongside people who are hurting. Because sometimes the most Christlike thing we can do isn’t to offer an answer. It’s simply to be present.
In 2017, I heard a word I never expected to hear.
Cancer. Triple-negative breast cancer.
Suddenly, life became a series of appointments, decisions, treatments, and questions I never imagined having to ask. There was chemotherapy, surgery, radiation, and all the physical and emotional challenges that came with them.
I write about much of this journey in my devotional, Still Choosing Joy: Lessons of Faith Through Cancer.
But one of the things I remember most isn’t just the treatments or the difficult days. It’s the people. The people who showed up. The people who prayed. The people who found ways to remind me I wasn’t walking through it alone. And sometimes, the people who made a difference didn’t even know me.
During my cancer journey, I started receiving cards from an out-of-town person I didn’t even know. Every now and then, another card would arrive with a little surprise tucked inside. Maybe a piece of gum. Some candy. Something small with a clever little saying that went along with it.
Nothing elaborate. Nothing expensive. But those cards meant so much to me. Think about that for a moment. Someone who didn’t even know me was taking time out of their day to think about me. To put together a little something. To send it in the mail. To bring a smile into what could be a very difficult day.
They couldn’t change my diagnosis. They couldn’t take away the effects of chemotherapy. They couldn’t make the uncertainty disappear. But they could remind me that someone cared. And they did.
I wonder how often we underestimate the impact of the little things. We think we need to do something big. Something impressive. Something that will really make a difference. But sometimes a simple card, a thoughtful text, a meal, or a small surprise is exactly what someone needs. Not because it changes their circumstances. But because it reminds them they haven’t been forgotten.
One of the things I learned during cancer was that having faith didn’t mean I never felt afraid. There were times when I felt strong. Times when I felt peaceful. Times when I was confident God was walking with me. And then another treatment day would arrive.
I remember walking through the doors of the cancer center, knowing what was ahead. I knew the treatment was necessary. I knew the people caring for me were doing everything they could to help me get well. But I also knew what the next several days could look like. The sickness. The exhaustion. The pain.
And sometimes I had to surrender my fears to God all over again. I think that’s something we need to understand when we’re walking alongside someone who is suffering. Just because someone has faith doesn’t mean they don’t hurt. Just because they trust God doesn’t mean they aren’t afraid. And just because they were doing well yesterday doesn’t mean today won’t be difficult.
Sometimes we unintentionally put pressure on people to be strong, stay positive, or demonstrate unwavering faith. But that’s not what Jesus modeled. He knew resurrection was coming. And still, He wept. We can have hope and still acknowledge the hurt.
Long before I heard the word cancer in my own life, I had already experienced what it was like to watch someone I loved walk through years of illness. My younger sister, Sara, lived with chronic illness that eventually left her homebound.
I watched her navigate pain, limitations, disappointment, and a life that looked very different from what she had once imagined. And I remember wishing I could change things for her.
I wanted her to feel better. I wanted her to be able to do the things the rest of us sometimes take for granted. I wanted to make things easier. But I couldn’t fix it. And that’s a difficult place to be when you love someone.
One of the things Sara taught me, though, was that even when we can’t change someone’s circumstances, we can still make a difference in their life. We can include them. We can listen. We can remember that they are so much more than their illness. We can continue inviting them into life, even when their participation might look different. And we can simply be there.
Years later, when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, I found myself on the other side. Now I was the one facing treatments, uncertainty, physical limitations, and days when I didn’t feel like myself.
And I began to understand some things in a different way.
I didn’t always need someone to cheer me up. I didn’t always need advice. And I certainly didn’t need to feel like I had to be strong for everyone around me. Sometimes I just needed to know someone cared. That I hadn’t been forgotten. That I was still me, even when cancer seemed to be taking over so much of my life.
I think walking on both sides has taught me something important. When someone is hurting, we don’t have to understand everything they’re experiencing to love them well. And we don’t have to fix their circumstances to make a difference.
Sometimes we just need to keep walking beside them. Maybe that’s part of what Jesus was showing us when He wept with Mary and Martha. He didn’t stand at a distance from their grief. He entered it. And perhaps that’s one of the most meaningful ways we can walk LIKE Him.
Having walked through cancer myself, and having walked alongside people I love through illness and loss, I’ve learned that our intentions may be good, but our words and actions don’t always land the way we hope. Sometimes we want so badly to make someone feel better that we rush to offer encouragement before we’ve really listened.
We say things like:
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“Just stay positive.”
“God won’t give you more than you can handle.”
Or we share a story about someone else who had cancer, sometimes without realizing that their experience may create even more fear. I understand why we do it. We don’t like seeing people hurt. We feel helpless. We want to say something that will make it better.
But here’s what I’ve learned. People don’t always need us to make them feel better. Sometimes they just need us to let them feel what they’re feeling.
Instead of trying to find the perfect words, what if we simply said:
“I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
“I don’t know what to say, but I care about you.”
“You don’t have to be strong with me.”
“I’m here. I’ll walk with you.”
Sometimes listening is more loving than speaking. Sometimes sitting quietly beside someone is more comforting than offering advice. And sometimes a hug says more than any words ever could.
“Let me know if you need anything.” I know I’ve said those words many times. And I meant them. But when someone is overwhelmed by appointments, treatments, exhaustion, and uncertainty, figuring out what they need and then asking someone for help can feel like one more responsibility.
What if we made it easier?
Instead of saying, “Let me know if you need anything,” we could say:
“I’m making dinner on Thursday. Would it be helpful if I brought some over?”
“I’m heading to the grocery store. Can I pick up a few things for you?”
“I’d love to send you a card now and then. No need to respond.”
“Would you like company at your appointment, or would you prefer some quiet time?”
The important thing is to offer specific help while still respecting what the person wants and needs. Not everyone wants visitors. Not everyone wants to talk about their illness. And not everyone needs the same kind of support. Loving people well means paying attention to what they need, not just what we want to give.
Here’s another thing I’ve learned. When someone first receives a difficult diagnosis, there’s often an outpouring of love and support. People send cards. They bring meals. They pray. They check in. And those things are wonderful. But cancer doesn’t end after the initial diagnosis.
There are months of treatments. There are difficult days. There are moments of discouragement, uncertainty, and exhaustion. And even when treatment ends, the journey isn’t necessarily over.
Sometimes the emotional weight of everything you’ve been through takes time to process. That’s why continued encouragement matters. Remembering someone weeks or months later. Checking in after treatment ends. Sending another card. Asking how they’re really doing. Not assuming everything is back to normal simply because the medical treatments are finished.
One of the things that made those little cards I received so special was that they didn’t arrive just once. Now and then, another one would show up. Another reminder. Someone still cared.
Throughout our Walk LIKE Him series, we’ve been talking about what it means for our faith to become visible in our everyday lives. We’ve talked about being a living prayer. We’ve talked about letting the fruit of the Spirit show. We’ve talked about seeing people the way Jesus sees them. And now we’re talking about walking alongside them.
Because compassion isn’t just something we feel. It’s something we choose to demonstrate. Jesus didn’t simply teach people about love. He lived it. He noticed people. He listened. He touched those others avoided. He entered people’s suffering. And when Mary and Martha were grieving, He wept.
He showed us that loving someone doesn’t require us to have all the answers. It requires us to care enough to show up.
“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” — Galatians 6:2
We may not be able to carry someone’s entire burden. But perhaps we can help make it a little lighter.
As I think back on my cancer journey, I am reminded again of how God used people to encourage me. Some were family and friends. Some were people who prayed, helped, and walked beside me. And some were people I didn’t even know, sending little surprises through the mail.
I don’t know if those individuals realized the difference they were making. But I remember. And that’s something I hope we all carry with us.
You don’t have to be a counselor, a pastor, a medical professional, or someone with all the right words to make a difference. You just have to be willing to love. To notice. To reach out. To show up.
Maybe there’s someone in your life right now who is walking through cancer, grieving a loss, caring for a loved one, or facing a season they never expected. What could you do today to remind them they aren’t alone?
Send the card. Make the call. Drop off the meal. Offer the prayer. And don’t forget to check in again.
Because sometimes the smallest acts of kindness leave the most lasting impressions. And sometimes the most meaningful thing we can say is simply: “I can’t fix what you’re going through. But I’m here. And I’ll walk with you.”
That’s what it means to walk LIKE Him. And that’s one more way we can choose joy — by bringing a little of it into someone else’s difficult day.
A Moment to Reflect
- Is there someone in my life who is walking through a difficult season and could use some encouragement?
- Am I more focused on finding the right words or simply being present?
- What small act of kindness could I choose this week?
- How can I continue showing up for someone after the initial crisis has passed?
This week’s challenge: A Little Joy in the Mail
Choose one person who could use encouragement and send them a handwritten card. Include a favorite Scripture, a small surprise, or simply a few words to remind them they matter. Don’t worry about making it perfect. Just make it personal.
Because love doesn’t have to be extravagant to be extraordinary.
Seek Jesus. Follow Faithfully. Abide Deeply. Experience Joy. Invite Others Along.
With love and joy,
Laura
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