I’ve lost my faith.
It happened a few years ago, after some really bad things happened in my life.
Let me back up a bit. About eleven years ago, I became a Christian. I was strong in the faith and walked pretty consistently. I had my ups and downs. The ups were like a glorious, wonderful honeymoon with God spent laughing and giggling, and the downs – well, they were stagnant, but nothing more.
Until about three years ago.
My loved ones and I underwent a horrible trial that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. The hard time felt like a never-ending abyss, and I’ve coined it the Great Sadness.
It lasted about a year, and when it was done, I was beyond relieved. Life returned to a new normal.
However, after the trial, I made a shocking discovery: I was angry with God. Loathsome, in fact.
I didn’t want to pray to Him. In fact, I felt like spitting nails at Him. In the morning I would open my Bible and stare blankly into the darkness. The motivation to pray was gone.
Whenever someone mentioned God I wanted to punch a wall or stab a pillow.
I didn’t talk to Him for a long time. Blankness filled my relationship with Him. Finally, however, the words returned.
And they were angry words, spiteful malice. Hate-filled curses full of blame and accusation spilled from my mouth to the precious ears of God. How could you let this happen, God??!! I screamed toward the ceiling.
I didn’t know who caused the pain – God or Satan. But I knew one thing: God allowed it. And I didn’t know why.
I spent weeks upon months hollering and shrieking, often with tears accompanied, to God. Why?!!? I would desperately, angrily seethe.
Furious rage would bubble from my soul and manifest itself in screeches to Heaven. Why did You allow this pain? What could have possible been worth this??!!?
As the weeks passed, the anger subsided.
I realized I needed God. Although I didn’t know why He allowed my suffering, I knew He was the only One who could heal it. And although it was the worst, unimaginable pain I ever felt, I began to trust that it happened for a reason.
God, Who allowed me to be broken, was also the Source of my healing.
It’s a paradox in the strangest way, but it’s true.
Why did I have to suffer? Why did my loved ones have to undergo such pain? Was there purpose in our tears?
I’m counting on getting answers shortly after I pass through the eternal gates.
Until then, I trust. I know there is a reason. The pain brought about something meaningful. Although I’m not sure what it is, I trust my Father. I only see a partial picture. He sees all.
And provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the Lord
for the display of his splendor.
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