I remember when the crying arrived. I had called my friend Annie one morning after my daughter had left for school in a flurry of shouting, swearing, and slamming. I did not readily share my emotions even with close friends, but in a moment of desperate clarity, told my shameful secret: my efforts were worthless, and my child would never be well.

Annie listened attentively and said something remarkable. “It is painful when your suffering seems to be for nothing,” she said. “But it is beautiful. It is beautiful to God. Sometimes he brings people to see it, and I see it.” I started crying then, both in the instant, as well as constitutionally, as a person.

I have not stopped crying since then.