There are some stories that just stop you when you hear them. The death of three little children at the hands of their own mother is one of those. You cannot explain it away. You cannot soften it. Three young lives—Cora, Dawson, and Callan—were taken, and a father’s world was shattered in a single afternoon. That is a wound that does not heal quickly, and any of us who love the Lord have to begin by simply grieving with those who grieve.

At the same time, as the details have come out, many of us have been forced to look at something larger. Lindsay Clancy was described by her own father and by her mother-in-law as a good and loving mother. Those who knew her best spoke of her that way right up until the day everything fell apart. She had been seeking help. She had reported the dark thoughts. And then, according to the defense and the doctors who examined her afterward, she was overtaken by postpartum psychosis—a rare but devastating break in the mind that can bring delusions, voices, and a complete loss of the ability to tell right from wrong.

We have seen this kind of thing before. Families who have walked through postpartum psychosis tell the same story: the woman who did certain things was not the woman they knew. When the cloud finally lifted, she was left looking back in deep shame at what had happened through her hands. That is not an excuse. It is simply the way severe illness of the mind can work in a fallen world. Scripture never pretends that bodies and minds always stay whole. We read of kings driven mad, of prophets sitting under a broom tree wanting to die, of people whose minds were tormented. The fall touched everything—including the brain.

Here in Scotland, and in a lot of other places, the support for severe mental illness is often thin. People seek help and still fall through the cracks. Medications are given and Appointments are made. And sometimes the crisis still comes. When that happens, it is fair to ask hard questions about the care that was given—or not given. Doctors, nurses, and social workers carry real responsibility. Neglect has a cost. At the same time, we have to be careful not to turn every tragedy into a simple hunt for someone else to blame. The children are still gone. The act was still horrific. God sees every layer of it—>the broken mind—> the inadequate care—> the shattered family<—and He is not confused.

So how do we, as the people of God, respond?

Firstly, we refuse to pick up stones. I have always felt that when we do not have the full picture of another person’s mind or heart, we need to be slow. Jesus was. When they dragged the woman caught in adultery before Him, He did not join the crowd. He said, “He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first.” And when they had all left, He told her, “Neither do I condemn you; go and sin no more.” He did not call the sin small. He also did not crush her under the weight of public judgment. We can grieve the children and still refuse to act as if we sit on the throne of final judgment.

Secondly, we are to remember that we ourselves stand only by grace as none of us knows what pressures or darkness we might face if our own minds were overtaken. Having received mercy —> we are called to show mercy. Having been forgiven —> we are to be forgiving. That does not mean we pretend sin is not sin. It means we hold both the truth of what happened and the compassion of Christ toward a person who was clearly not in her right mind.

Thirdly, we pray—>we get on our knees—>and we keep praying. We pray for the father and the grandparents who have to live with this. We pray for Lindsay herself, that in the midst of the shame and the paralysis and the long hospital days she would encounter the real mercy of Jesus. We pray for the doctors and the systems that so often fail the most vulnerable. And we pray that the church would become a place where a mother can say, “I am not well,” and find both practical help and the steady love of Christ.

Finally, we keep pointing people to Jesus. Better mental-health care is needed. Stronger support for new mothers is needed. Accountability where care was neglected is needed. But none of those things, as important as they are, can forgive sin or heal a shattered conscience or give eternal hope. Only the gospel can do that. Jesus came for the broken, the ashamed, and the ones whose lives have been torn apart by both sickness and sin. He does not wait until we have it all sorted out. He meets us in the wreckage.

The killing of those three children is tragic beyond words. The wider need is also real. And in the middle of it all, the heart of God is still toward the broken. He is still the One who restores. He is still the One who says, “Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” That is the message we hold out—not because we have easy answers, but because we have a Savior who is enough.