I knew too much to stop believing in God. It could never make sense to stop believing in him. But his goodness? That was doubtable. In my most shattered, barren, naked season, I didn’t renounce belief in the existence of God, but I shook my fist at him and put him on trial as a liar.
After the first miscarriage, I examined the shards of glass around us and tried to reassemble them. I pretended all was fine; I smiled and said prayers by rote and habit. I read the Bible like all good Christians should. By the second miscarriage, my cuts started to sting. Then when more plates seemed to be thrown directly down at me, I threw my bleeding hands up and turned my back on it all. When I finally returned to face the shattered remains, I shook my fist at God Almighty. How could he? Where was he? Where was his faithfulness? What happened to his promises of nearness to the brokenhearted?
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to A Faithful Imagination to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.