When your father dies, well-meaning people tell you to move on. All your sadness won’t bring him back. Hush now, honey, and after all, God would rather have you bury your burdens in the basement than cast them out onto the lawn, where everyone can see. You listen to these people with an ache in your heart. You want to ask who taught them these things. Who taught them that grief was akin to shame? Who made them believe that faith couldn’t crawl into bed with doubt, that joy got canceled out if it was tangled up with pain? Who told them, when their own loss ripped a cavern in their souls, that dry-eyed prayers were all the Lord could bear? You want to take their trembling hands, lean right in, and whisper, Open your eyes, love. Jesus isn’t throwing stones.