Two weeks ago, I lost someone I loved very, very much.

To get the basic questions out of the way:

No, I am not OK.

No, it is not getting easier.

And yes, I do blame God.

But not in the way you might think.

You see, my God is incapable of doing anything unjust, unholy or unrighteous. Therefore, anything He does must be good and best.

My God is sovereign, He holds my world in His hands. He held my loved one's soul, and now holds his eternity.

Because of this, the joy of knowing I get to see his face when I see Jesus is far greater than the long sleepless nights on this Earth.

I will see him again, and nothing can take that hope away.

I know that the night he was killed, God was there.

God didn't blink, or look away, or stop paying attention.

In fact, He was incredibly active.

He was busy rescuing his soul from this messed up, painful, temporary world.

God was responsible for taking him home, where he (and I) belong.

And because God was so involved, I know that the place where he is now is far greater than even the best dream could picture.

In the middle of the anguish and the tears, this is my joy.

See, the thing is, the same God who took his soul to a safer place is coming to get mine one day.

That doesn't scare me.

That doesn't even make me uneasy.

I rejoice in the fact that Jesus paid my debt, and one day I will see the ones I love so dearly in a perfect family reunion.

That hope and joy make it worth it.

It doesn't mean I don't hurt.

It doesn't mean I don't cry myself to sleep.

It doesn't mean that the slightest memory doesn't knock the breath out of me.

It doesn't even mean that I'll stop wearing his jackets, T-shirts or hats anytime soon.

But this is what it does mean: when the pain gets unbearable and much too deep, I stop and picture the glorious sights he is beholding, and I'm comforted.

I'm encouraged.

In fact, sometimes, I'm a little jealous.

When I weep, I do not weep for the loss, for there truly isn't one.

I weep for the separation, as temporary as it is.

I weep that I didn't say, "I love you," just one last time and that his coffee breath is only a piece of a memory.

But I smile for the good times I was granted with him.

I am stronger for the lessons he taught me.

I am who I am because he is forever a part of me.

And I rejoice, with joy inexpressible and full of glory (1 Peter 1:8), because someday I will be where he is.

That joy is greater than any pain I could ever feel.