He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief;
and as one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely, he has borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows;
yet we esteemed him stricken,
smitten by God, and afflicted.

But he was pierced for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his wounds we are healed.

All we like sheep have gone astray;
we have turned—every one—to his own way;
and the Lord has laid on him
the iniquity of us all.

Isaiah 53:3-6 emphasis added

She looked up from her device and asked when they would call her up. She was going to sing with her daddy—for her grandpa, now resting in the casket, still from his labor.

Anyone who walked by, she would tell them about singing with her daddy for her grandpa. Her body has circled the sun 29 times, but her mind settled into that of a child. There is nothing but pure innocence in her smile and her tears.

They took the stage, this father and daughter. It was his father’s funeral—her grandpa, whom she loved deeply. He introduced himself simply as “Elizabeth’s daddy,” and in all my years of knowing him, I had never seen the man so proud. He let everyone know that Elizabeth was the singer and he was only the backup. That they would be singing from the heart.

Elizabeth can do nothing else but live from the heart. And it is so precious.

His sister began the song on the piano. Elizabeth opened her mouth and her large heart cried out with all its hurt: “I can only imagine.” Her dad, whose voice has always been a solid and comforting sound, carried her through the whole song. The audience picked up the chorus and sang along. Her words traveled through every heart, for she knows no other way to live than raw, in-the-moment love. And every eye released that sorrowful tear, finding a safe home in such honest love. When her song finished and the last note faded, the room lifted praise through clapping and adoration—for this woman-child whose heart feels openly and deeply.

I touched the corner of my eye. Having known her for these three decades, this day more than any other confirmed to me that her life was no accident. Her birth was no mistake.

Three decades ago, a young couple fumbled through a rocky marriage, while their toddler tumbled around arguments and fights. In my desperate mind, I thought maybe—just maybe—if I got pregnant again, our marriage would work out. That he would love me. I would be patient. That a fairy-tale ending might blanket all the shouting, the hurtful words, the anger—with love and peace and joy. That another child, a sibling for our precious daughter, would bring the healing we so desperately needed.

But God, in His infinite wisdom, chose to open the womb of his mistress—and keep mine closed.

My world shattered. Every belief I held about life and love broke. My husband was going to have another child, and I was pushed aside like a leprous, venomous, contemptuous nobody. My days were filled with questioning God and wondering why I was so horrible, so unlovable.

Please—don’t move too quickly past this moment. Sit with it. Stay in the discomfort of it all.

It was not me who held life.
It was not me who held the hope of love.
It was not me who carried peace in her soul.
It was not me who had joy for the future.

I sat alone, years ago, with my worldview shattered around me. Every atom of my being fractured and broken. I was the woman scorned. I became a single mom. And the mistress—whose name I could hardly say without expletives—became his pregnant wife, loved and cared for.

And her child was named Elizabeth.

This innocent child’s life began surrounded by infidelity, anger, pain, and suffering no child should feel. And yet—we are all born into this broken world.

Perhaps if the husband, the mistress, and I had the sight of God, we could have walked this road with the love that only He has. But we didn’t. We couldn’t. We spent years—decades—trapped in hurt and pain and suffering.

But God gave Elizabeth a heart to simply love.

Only a God who is pure love can paint the world with mercy and forgiveness, visible only through His tear-filled eyes of suffering. Only this God, who took on flesh, walked with sinners, dined with outcasts, and died having done no wrong—only He can redeem shattered lives. Only Jesus—whose hand touched lepers, whose smile broke barriers, whose words silenced the stoic—can pick up the fragments and create a mosaic of redemption.

And slowly my life experiences began to show me the truth of this God, this deep love, this unfathomable grace.

If Jesus was born solely to show me forgiveness, His life was not in vain.
If Jesus fed hundreds to show me kindness, His death was not in vain.
If Jesus healed the suffering to show me gentleness, His resurrection was not in vain.

This Suffering Servant of God dismantles all human logic about how we should live when deeply hurt.

This Suffering Servant of God dismantles all human logic about how we should live when deeply hurt. This is where the mathematics of God breaks the physics of man.

He loves the husband.
He loves the mistress.
He loves me.

He cares for the road we each travel. I wanted them to pay for my pain. But Jesus soothed my soul: He already paid for my hurt. And His death covered their sin as well as mine—for I am no innocent.

I wanted them to hurt, and me to be loved. Yet Jesus calmed my heart: His love never left me. And the hard truth? His love never left them.

I wanted repayment for my lost years, my wayward tears, and my turbulent fears. But Jesus allowed my tantrums—and quietly whispered: He holds my hours, my cries, and my uncertainties.

And He cradles the child who whose name is Elizabeth.

After the service for her grandpa, after the mourners had eaten, after all the hugs had been given, Elizabeth wandered outside the church where I was talking with family. I turned and walked toward her. She ran to me. We embraced like two women who knew deep hurt—and deeper love.

I whispered to her, “Elizabeth, you sang so beautifully for your grandma and your grandpa. I love your heart so much.” She hugged me tighter. I felt incredibly special.

In that moment, I knew: her life is no accident. Her birth—no mistake.

Her mom came out just then. We hugged as well. It’s not that time heals all wounds.

But the Creator God, who wove time into existence—He heals wounds.
The Redeemer God, whose very flesh bled and died—He heals broken hearts.
The Risen Lord, who breathes forgiveness—He mends fractured relationships.

And it is only because of this God—God made flesh, who knew sorrow, who was pierced, who felt the crushing weight of sin and suffering—that I can forgive, love, and find joy. That I can listen to this woman-child sing beside her daddy, and feel nothing but love and gratefulness for exactly who they are.