I’ve struggled to know the realness of God even before my baby died right in front of me.
Believe me, I begged Him. Real, fake, compassionate, cruel – I begged Him.
I begged Him. “Please, God, I’ll do anything. Dear Jesus, please heal my baby.”
How do you recover from that? I mean; you don’t I guess.
“I’ll go to church every week; I’ll stop saying Your name in vain out of frustration; I’ll be better for You. Whatever you want; just please save her.”
How do you invite Him to coffee for a little chat? I hate you. You are mean. You took and took and took from me. What did I ever do?
What did I do to deserve any of this? I don’t understand the workings of the world sometimes.
Life’s problems are so trivial. I CARRY THAT. Misunderstandings, pinched feelings, logistics, political correctness, hierarchy, pride. Don’t bring me your pride; my daughter is dead.
I could not imagine a life outside of the hell I was living. I thought I’d lived it. But I suppose there is an elevator – or descendator – in hell, and I guess I arrived to a lower tier of hell in Room 14.
I don’t understand. I never will. And science does not understand. And now she rests in our home. I have a lock of hair and her ashes.
But maybe she lives …
I have never doubted that I will see her again.
But that is because she’s with Him.
So, where do I go from here?
I can’t do it on my own anymore.