Up until recently, my faith in God was unshakable. If you had asked me then why I was religious and why I believe, I always said the same thing: When I ask, God listens.
So when the doctor told us the baby wasn’t growing and the pregnancy would not continue, I begged God to listen. I prayed more than I ever have in my 37 years of living a religious life.
Imagine the person you love the most in this world was teetering on the brink of death. I assume you would call on God or whoever deity you believe in, and if not a deity, then cross all your fingers, legs, and toes. That’s how I felt. Crazed at the idea of that love being taken away.
I prayed so much, I prayed in my dreams. I asked others to pray too. Baby be safe. Baby be strong. I wanted the baby to come into this world and be held. Not by the saints or by God in heaven. I wanted the baby to be cradled by me, it’s mother, here on earth, in the flesh. God, I’m asking please. Please listen.
That’s when I turned away from God. I wouldn’t be human if I said my faith wasn’t shaken. Because I am hurt and angry and sorrowful.
Have I turned atheist? No.
Do I still believe in God? Yes.
Am I mad at God? YES!
Am I talking to God? I am taking a break as I tend to my grief. I feel let down. And don’t feel like talking to him right now. Except that I do, because I believe. So every once in a while I sneak in a plea. God, please take care of my baby up there.