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Lord, I Don't Trust You Anymore

I just watched Breaking Point by Sarah Jakes Roberts and I have literally come apart. I cried the kind of tears that have you shaking and burning up on the inside as your throat struggles to make way for any air to go in or out. I told God about my anger and bitterness and frustration. How I want to believe in Him but I can’t bring myself to. How I am failing to have hope in Him because hope has become a trigger for pain for me; it is a reminder of all the things He said He would do and hasn’t done. I told Him I hated how He was handling me and my life. I got everything off of my chest.

More than anything I realized that it is easy to become depressed as a Christian. I’m not sure that’s what I am. All I know is I’m at that point where every time I open my eyes in the morning I let out a huge sigh of “here we go again”. And it’s funny to me how I can’t seem to escape myself in real life or my dreams. The voices and sounds of defeat follow me everywhere; it is almost as though they have been etched into my mind. But I digress. It is easy to become depressed as a Christian because we mask pain and anger and everything else along those lines in faith or hope in God. Actually, we bury them in faith. We feel angry about certain situations and we say “God I am angry but I trust You.” That has been me perhaps this whole year. It’s not necessarily a bad thing to say things like this, but what if I am still angry, I don’t trust and I want nothing to do with God because I feel He gave permission for something that hurt me to happen? What happens then? I trust You still God? I don’t. Label me a heretic, but it’s true.

Like I said, I came apart tonight. It has been about an hour since I prayed and cried and I want to say I feel better and lighter and God and I don’t have beef anymore but that would be a lie – one that, if I am to go to hell, I definitely do not want to burn for. And to be frank, I want more than anything, to sit in these feelings. They’re mine and this is where I am at. I do not want to feign faith and pretend that, just because I confessed everything, I don’t feel anything, because I do. I’m still hurt. I am still having a hard time trusting. I know this is what relationships are like in real life and I don’t want to expect my relationship with God to be any different.

Sometimes I make stories up in my head to help me deal with painful situations, and the story that I am telling myself now is that Hannah must have felt lighter after pouring her heart out to God, but I am willing to bet everything I have that that didn’t mean she didn’t walk away with a headache, sore eyes and hurt from even having to talk to God about what should have been a non-starter for her as a woman. I want to believe that she went to her room that night and pondered her words and listened in the dead of the night waiting to hear from God while simultaneously crushing the idea of Him ever speaking to her. I want to believe the ride home was as hellish; that it was a “wow God after that session with You I’m still going home with a closed womb.” I want to believe that she got home and away from her trigger and everything about being in the temple that provoked her need for a functioning womb and went back to default settings: numb, passive-aggressive and a ball of happiness and ‘okay’ for everyone at home. I want to believe that that was Hannah because that is me. I have moved away from the altar of God and have come back to life. I feel lighter at having removed the baggage within, but I still feel the ache in my back and shoulders for having carried it that long. I don’t want to ask myself if that is okay or acceptable as a Christian, or question what size my faith is or if I understand faith or even have it. And maybe that’s what healing looks like, even in Christianity. Maybe it is less “I trust You God” and more of “I am still hurting and trying to believe but failing miserably.” Maybe it is making peace with the dark cloud that is hovering over my head and allowing myself to trust that God is adding little blue dots to it to have it match the sky on the good days, and on the bad days to stare at it and wonder if it will ever go away.

Maybe Hannah’s bitterness didn’t leave after she left the temple, or even when Eli told her that her prayers had been answered. If those days were anything like ours, Hannah had probably heard different variations of “It will all be well” from priests, friends and maybe even her own family. And I know now more than ever that those words have a tendency of brewing a certain resentment toward God within me as they hit the rock that is my heart as opposed to pointing me toward the light at end of the tunnel as they are meant to. Maybe Hannah’s gloom hovered around as her imagination played around with thoughts of “What if?” Maybe, just maybe, Hannah only got to smile and trust God wholeheartedly when her appetite changed, her breasts grew a bit more tender and when her menses didn’t pay her a visit. Maybe even then she was still doubtful. Maybe she waited the second, third and fourth month to believe that God had actually heard her, and that one man’s “It will all be well” had been a prophecy after all.

I don’t know what my journey will be like. I don’t want to think of it actually. Maybe I will wake up tomorrow with messages that will change the entire trajectory of my story. Maybe I will wake up and find out that my seed has blossomed into a tree, that my baby is born, that worry is no longer my best friend. Maybe I will wake up tomorrow and take a deep sigh and think “You actually care for me.” I hope I do. I desperately hope I do.


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