I lock the doors. Close the curtains. And let God have it.
I clinch my fists in a maddening rage as my hands tremble violently. Within moments, my fingers ache from the intense, white-knuckle tightness. And my forearms cramp up. The blood rushes to my head. And my eyes burn and burn and burn from the tears.
I speak, then shout — and scream.
My voice becomes raspy as I rant. And soon, my throat burns. My heart is aflame with grief and rage, so much so that my ears can no longer understand the words coming out of my mouth. Before it’s over, I will blow my nose several times and wipe my eyes often and much.
I am broken — and I am praying.
I start with the loss of my friend, JD, a man taken far, far too soon. A man who left behind a wife and two children. I tell God that I do not think it is fair for his children to grow up without a father. And then, I ask God why He didn’t take me instead, that I want to be with my children, that I don’t have any here for me.
“All I do is suffer and I am sick to death of it!!!”
And then, I rant about all the believers — never the broken — who paint a picture of life with Christ as a portrait of perfection. Their grandiose testimonies have made me feel like God has something against me, like grace is a joke for people like me because my life has been so hard. My brokenness is not the result of one trial, nor one tragedy — but a lifetime of unbearable loss.
“And it just keeps happening!!!”
I rattle off the names of those I’ve lost in just the past five years: Jerry, Britany, Virginia, Rob, Terry, Nancy, Leroy, Art, Kim, Greg, Melody — and now JD. I tell God that I am the anti-Midas. Everything King Midas touched turned to gold, but I feel like everything I touch turns to dirt. I am cursed. “God has raised His fist against me.”
“How am I supposed to go on? How?”
And then, in that moment, all of my rage and all of my grief and all that I am burns and burns and burns for The Almighty. I am a man of faith — and, even in the midst of this monstrous mess my life has become, I know that He could end every ounce of this despair with a simple whisper. A sign. A something. Anything.
“If You would just speak, this madness would end!”
With the last tissue, I tell God that I am convinced He wants me to suffer — alone, in this maddening agony. I tell Him that I have given up on Him, that I cannot take any of this any more. That I am broken. And my heart is dead. My pain is too great, my anguish too deep. And that I will never serve God again for as long as I live.
“I can’t do it! I can’t do it! I just can’t do it!”
Three days later, God spoke to me through a dream.
“In my dream, I had a vision…”
To learn more, read “Safe in the Mouth of Danger.”