The Simple Gospel

By: Brenda Wieneke

Last night, our almost 9-month-old decided not to sleep at all. When we put him into his crib, he immediately began crying and yelling. Our first instinct was to bring him into our bed. He cried for about 35 minutes before finally falling asleep.

Two hours later, the crying started again—loud, desperate, relentless. No matter what we did or said, or how hard we tried to comfort him, nothing worked. We kept looking at each other asking, “What is going on?”

Exhausted, I handed him to Jake. As I lay there trying to force myself back to sleep through the noise, I could hear Jake softly repeating, “It’s okay, Clement. I’ve got you. It’s okay, I’ve got you.” But as he spoke, Clement cried even louder.

Jake eventually got up and began walking around the room, gently bouncing him and calmly speaking to him—telling him that he understood, that he was there, and that everything was going to be okay. He kept speaking softly while Clement cried and screamed. After what felt like an hour, Clement finally began to settle.

Lying there in that moment, something finally clicked.

We are all Clement.

And Jake is the Good Father.

This is us—crying out from our brokenness, our wounds from this world, the pain we carry daily: addiction, abandonment, grief, and suffering. And there is the Father, holding us close, speaking gently:

“It’s okay. I’m here.”

“I see your pain.”

“I’m right here holding you. It’s safe to let go.”

We are often so deep in our brokenness that we cannot settle long enough to truly hear Him. We cling so tightly to our suffering that we miss the Father’s gentle voice reassuring us that we are safe—that we are being held close to His heart as He whispers to the depths of our souls, “I am here. Your Father is here.”

Like Clement, we become so overwhelmed that we cannot stop crying long enough to listen. We are consumed by our pain and fail to recognize our Father speaking to us. Yet like any good father, He knows the long history of our wounds—years of abandonment, hurt, and brokenness—so He remains patient. He continues to hold us, to walk with us, and to repeat over and over again that He is here.

And then, slowly, something changes.

After what feels like forever, we finally loosen our grip. Our hearts begin to calm, and we start to recognize our Father’s voice. The words He has spoken to us all along finally reach our hearts. We realize we are being held by a Father who has never left—a Father who has always been present, speaking blessings over us and gently mending what is broken.

His voice grows clearer. Our hearts soften. His words begin to console us until they become the only voice that matters. Our restlessness fades, and we finally rest, falling asleep in the safety of the Father’s arms. His voice becomes like a steady sound machine—constant, gentle, and faithful in the background.

St. Teresa of Avila says, “Christ does not force our will. He only takes what we give Him, but He does not give Himself entirely until He sees we yield ourselves entirely to Him.”

And that is where it all begins—with surrender.

When we finally let go and give ourselves fully to the Father, we find rest.

Sadly, that crying may last a lifetime if we never allow the Father’s voice to reach our hearts. And even when we do surrender, there will be moments when we cry out again—but now it is different. This time, we recognize His voice. This time, we know we are safe, held securely in our Father’s embrace.

Prayer

“Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” (1 Samuel 3:9)

Lord, tune my ears to Your voice alone. Help me recognize You in the midst of my cries.

Amen.