Two of my friends died in the last year.  One of a massive stroke at the young age of 53.  The other after a seven-year marathon cage fight with a serious illness.  They did not know each other, but they both knew me.

As I stand and stare into the mirror, attempting to fumble my way through my daily routine, I feel anything but routine.  Getting ready for work, a rather structured and active part of my day, suddenly feels just as foggy as the mirror after my morning’s hot shower.  My regular thoughts and daily preparation of pondering pending work assignments, attempting to recall if I brushed my teeth and the eternal question of scrambled or over-easy, have been rudely displaced by the deep, dull ache in my heart and the demanding questions that pile up in my head like the rush hour traffic jam my car seems to instinctually locate when I’m late for a meeting.

I know this feeling. It happened after my best friend died when we were both in our mid-twenties.  I felt it when my dad died just a year later.  And now, again, life’s deepest questions have come to demand my undivided attention because of my two dead friends.

If someone you cherished is gone, then you know the vulnerable ground which gets disturbed when death stomps in with its unwelcomed entrance.  Death’s disruption releases some deep & profound questions we prefer to keep comfortably hidden inside a forgotten room, behind a steel door, at the end of a very long and a very narrow corridor.  But now, each new encounter with death becomes a new crack in that door as past emotions and memories barge their way into our conscious mind; creating their renewed havoc.

I lost my dad over twenty years ago, yet the death of my two friends last week launches me back two decades.  The same shocked emotions and confusion swirl into a murky concoction, just as before.  And I am tempted to interpret the mixture in one simple but demanding inquiry I howl at the universe.  At life.  At God.

Why?

Why him?

Why her?

Why now?

Why!?

Under the circumstances, the question seems to make sense.

Asking “why?” seems a very logical flow of thought as I encounter a life caustically interrupted.  “Why?” feels one-part genuine inquiry, one-part insistant demand to acknowledge my despair from whomever or whatever might give a damn.  The question feels like one small human’s confused cry to a seemingly distant God, tangled with an angry scream into the void of an unfeeling universe for meaning and clarity in the midst of incomprehensible loss.

But, as the haze dissipates on my mirror and in my mind, allowing me to probe and rummage around more honestly into my pain, I discern “why?” is not the question I am asking at all.

“Why?” is just the ache talking.  “Why?” creates no dialog, like an unanswerable riddle from a small child.  “Why?” becomes a smoke-screen for the deepest question of my heart’s deepest need.

Down that long, dark hallway, in that long forgotten closest, where I have stuffed all my despair, misery and yearnings I am embarrassed to admit I have, a muffled voice is actually asking,

Why not?

Why not… give in to despair?

Why not… believe that death has the final say?

Why not… just eat, drink, and be merry because tomorrow it will be my turn?

Just take all of death’s overwhelming evidence staring me in the eyes and chuck my whole belief in a good God who promises me love, life and peace.   Say “the hell with it all,” and be done with the struggle.  Give in to grief, give out from pain and give up on life.  Why not?

Asking “why not?” makes me squirm.  I’d rather not think about such serious things as life and meaning and reality.

Real questions make us uncomfortable. Real questions make us… question.  I fear my questions of “Why not?” will ultimately lead me to despair.  That the faith I have sworn allegiance will not be able to withstand the heat of the courtroom.  I worry my beliefs will crumble under the pressure of cross-examination.

Instead, in times of pain and loss, well-intentioned people rush in with answers, usually in the form of nice platitudes. I understand it.  I do it myself.  It is hard to watch someone feel bad. We want to help. Do something.  Say something.  Anything.  Even if I am just trying to comfort myself.

Oh, he had a good life.

At least her suffering is over.

He’s in a better place now.

I had another friend die a few years ago.  A young father in his early forties.  Father to three amazing daughters, all still under 18.  Held a good paying job at the local trucking company.  And the man could ride a horse like he was born on it.  But on a random Tuesday morning, when no one was home, he took his own life.  For him, the question of “Why not?” did not find an answer.  At least, no answer real and deep enough to keep him hoping, believing or even living.

That is what I fear.  I think that is what we all fear.

If we let the questions linger, if we let them speak their mind--put them on the witness stand without quickly jumping to silence and escort them away--we will ultimately end up in despair ourselves.  We may not take our own life, but we will live with the conviction there is no answer to our questions.  That all we think we believe and bet our life on is, in the end, just smoke and mirrors.

False testimony. 

No corroborating evidence to support.

On this morning of mourning for my friends, I want to let the questions come roaring out of their darkened abode.  I want to let them scream, rail and lament.  I want them to hit me between the eyes with their best shot.  Because only in the clarifying light of reality can the reality of God be truly experienced.  Only when we let the questions of our deepest fears see daylight can they ever be answered.  Confronted.  Or comforted.  Even Jesus' closest friends had to face the dark day of questions in between his crucifixion and his resurrection.

So must we.  

So must I. 

Only in the brutally honest moments will I ever find true and genuine resolve to all the “Why not?” I carry chained up in my soul.  The dark, locked up prison cell, I have discovered, is located inside my own heart.  Truth will never set me free, or you, in the deepest and most profound ways until I unlock the innermost parts of myself with all the fears and questions that reside there.

So let us resolve to set the questions loose.  Let us argue, lament and wail.  Let us run to God, as a True Father, asking Him “Why Not?”

Then let's wait for answers there.