Throughout his growing up years, a friend’s son and I shared sweet interactions. All children in China learn English, but Malachi’s proficiency was better than most. At his dad’s urging, I primarily communicated with Malachi in English. He was shy, but any time we ran into each other, he readily answered my questions. Occasionally, he would bravely—and proudly—initiate a conversation, usually in order to impress a friend.
I remember well the last conversation I had with Malachi. I’d brought over a book for him to borrow. His dad indicated that he’d not been feeling well but perked up during my visit. We all took photos together, and then cheerily chatted on a messaging app afterward. A few weeks later, Malachi’s dad committed suicide.
After not seeing each other for some time, an old friend invited me out for a meal with her family. Over lunch, her son shared openly about deep pain that made surviving the education system impossible and had over the years led to self-harm. Ming expressed regret for failing to recognize her son’s needs earlier. I tried to point the way to Hope.
A few months later after a second meal together, I reciprocated by inviting them to my home. But when the day finally came, Ming was alone. Just a few days after our previous get-together, her son had committed suicide.
I share these experiences not to focus on the ones who left but rather on the left-behind.
Many years after their deaths, my mind still reviews last encounters with those who left, wondering how I could have better offered hope. What replays in Malachi and Ming’s minds? I still imagine their dad or son’s final moments. Malachi and Ming don’t need to imagine. They witnessed the lead up and lived in the aftermath.
Do they still feel bereft? Abandoned?
Perhaps—hundreds of times—they’ve reminded themselves that their loved one was overwhelmed by deep pain. Yet, do they still wonder why he chose to leave, abandoning them to the aftermath?
I haven’t seen Malachi since his dad’s death. Ming and I still share a meal occasionally, and we also message back and forth about the English language. At one point, I turned the tables. I was attempting to memorize John 14 in Chinese. As different wording caught my attention, I sought out Ming’s translation expertise.
Then, my memorizing reached John 14:18. “我不会撇下你们为孤儿.”1 In my English translation, the Good Shepherd says, “I will not abandon you as orphans.” The Chinese feels stronger to me, more like, “I will not cast you away as orphans.”
We have no adequate words—in English or Chinese—to describe a son who has lost a father (but not a mother) or a mother abandoned by a son. We have no language to describe people seemingly cast away by a family member who chose to leave this earth before his ordained time. We have no adequate words of comfort for the abandoned ones.
The Good Shepherd, though, does have words, living ones. He also has merciful comfort. In the same way that He eagerly entered into Mary and Martha’s grief, His embrace is wide enough to encircle Ming and Malachi. Though His physical body has left this earth, He has not deserted the left-behind. Instead, His promise rings throughout the ages, “I will never leave you desolate, bereft, or alone.”
Be encouraged, my friends. The Good Shepherd’s 怜悯和慈爱2 are for the abandoned. Tender Mercy and Lovingkindness are ever with you and me.
Water for the Weary 
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