Where are you God?

“I am having a complete come-apart faith crisis right now.”

Those were the first words I wrote in my journal on June 12, 2020.

I thought loss was supposed to get easier with time—but if anything, it's getting harder. June has been the hardest month so far. My journal continues:

I still read my scriptures to Payson everyday— but most days I don't for myself. I can't bear to.

About a week ago, I sent David out to go buy diapers on Sunday because we ran out. Mom chided me and said something to the effect of "How are you going to get blessings if you're going to the store on Sunday?” The complete wreckage of the last three years of my life flashed in my mind— Payson's 200+ seizures, his Dravet diagnosis, Kalea's unexpected death, the overwhelming grief, our rocky marriage. I coldly replied “Maybe I could use a little less blessings from the Lord right now.”

What a prideful and ungrateful thing to say, right? But I can't get it out of my head. Because maybe there's some truth in it.

Today, when David wanted to pray together before leaving for work (something we do every morning) I asked him if praying would “avail us anything.” Because we pray together everyday, and things are getting worse and getting harder. So why are we still praying?

I prayed that Payson's seizures would be healed. They aren't. They never will be. He has Dravet syndrome.

I prayed that he would be the exception— that he wouldn't have developmental delays. Yet he qualified for early childhood invention services when his evaluation revealed that at two years old, he was cognitively the same as an eight month old baby.

I prayed for my baby girl everyday. She was our healthy child, the one who would have helped us through Payson's health challenges. She was nothing but a blessing and we placed all our hopes on her. At seven months old she already felt like a best friend, and then the Lord took her.

I prayed hard (and earnestly) over every minor and major life decision I've made in the last five years. Should I go on a mission? Is David the right one to marry? Should we have a baby? Should we have another baby? Looking at the end results of those roads— it feels like either I'm crazy or God led me astray— because I've never been so low and so miserable. I must be crazy thinking God is directing me. I don't think He is.

I think I'm wandering blind uphill through thorn bushes. The things that should have brought the most joy and blessings, the things I gave up to follow what I though was God's plan for me-- mission, marriage, motherhood— have completely backfired. Who is going through what I've been through at age 25? Who worries about the things I have to worry about? I feel like I've given everything and He hasn't blessed me.

Where is God in my life?

What kind of a loving God lets people suffer so much? Not just me, but people who have and who are enduring the awful atrocities of both mankind and mortality?

Where is God in that?

And if He is loving, how can He possibly judge me with my limited mortal understanding for losing faith? Following God hasn't worked out for me. It's led me through tears, thorns, and trials. I'm tired. I can't keep praying to a God who is leading me off cliffs.

I'm tired of falling. I just can't anymore. Maybe if I stop being righteous I'll stop having such hard trials. Maybe both Satan and God will leave me alone. I don't have any more prayers left to pray, and frankly, I'm afraid to ask for anymore divine intervention in my life. If you've walked through what I've walked through, give advice. But if you haven't, don’t try. Because no one knows how hard these things hit until you personally experience it.

Where has God been?

I would have never been hit this hard if I hadn't been following Him in the first place. If this is what following Him will be like for the rest of my life, what is the incentive to keep going?

I finished my journal entry and was sitting outside in the summer sun having the darkest day losing the last bit of faith I had. I was sobbing, shaking, and crying as hard as I did the day I lost Kalea asking God out loud (like a crazy person) where He'd been over and over again in the sunny privacy of my backyard.

My soul felt like it was tearing apart—the pain of feeling completely abandoned by God. I was tired of giving everything to a God who was bent on blessing everyone else while withholding from me. I was tired of hearing the annoying phrase “families are forever”endlessly repeated by well-meaning people who had never experienced loss. I was angry at how much time my husband spent involved in church callings each week, and angry that “knowing the gospel plan” didn't make anything hurt less. And though it was a decision made in complete emotional agony— I decided that this was it— I was done with church for awhile. I was giving up.

As I turned to pick up my journal, I saw a tiny, white kitten wobbling out of my garage.

To understand the rest of the story, you need to know that from the time I was tiny, I was the kid always finding and bringing home animals. Tadpoles, mice, baby birds that had fallen out of their nests, wounded frogs that appeared after my dad mowed the lawn, and sick cats that always died. That's one of the biggest things that's made me “me”, and something you wouldn’t know unless you REALLY know me.

So there's this crusty eyed, mangy, sick kitten standing in my garage looking like it appeared out of thin air. And I can't even breathe. I can't believe what I'm seeing. Because a mangy, sick kitten is a miracle. A handwritten love note from God. I immediately know that this is God telling me beyond doubt that HE KNOWS ME, He sees me, and that He does send blessings.

I don't know what to make of God. He takes my daughter and gives me a litter of kittens. It's by no means an equal trade or replacement, but I've been happier in the last few days than I have for a while. I'm needed. I can serve even if it's only to what ended up being four sick crusty-eyed kittens.

It was hope when I saw that white kitten. A personal gift. And it's been a lot of work. Sometimes God's gifts are a lot of work. Big, baby blue innocent eyes they cry for me and climb on their cage when I pass by. They follow me like little ducks and play on my feet. New little creatures. Content with life and unaware of their unfortunate beginning. They need me and I need to be needed. They bring moments of joy as I watch them heal, grow, eat, wrestle, nap, and explore. The first day they could open their eyes all the way was a joyful one! They are the quiet forget-me-nots. They don't take away the pain, but they distract me from it.

God knows me. He is softening the blow. I don't know why my life has been so hard. I don't know why it hasn't felt fair or merciful, but I'm hanging onto every touch from God. I've never been so weak. Its embarrassing that I cannot even sustain my own faith right now. But it's okay. Because God knows my heart, and knows how I recognize His hand. And He does reach out. It's the fulfillment of the line from my favorite hymn, “I'll strengthen thee, help thee, and CAUSE thee to stand. Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.”

He is causing me to stand.

I've never pondered that line before— “cause thee to stand”. That word “cause” is so overlooked and interesting. We want Him to help us when we are still capable of standing, but sometimes it takes hitting the absolute lowest low-- when we literally cannot get up before He reaches down to lift us.

I remember going to girl's camp as a 16 year old. One of the speakers told us that if we ever doubted that God loved us to go into our room or a quiet place and kneel down and ask to feel God's love for us. The speaker promised us that if we did that, we would always be able to feel God's love.

I've thought about that experience in light of my recent experience asking God where He is. I am embarrassed that my faith has been so paper thin lately. I am embarrassed by the questions I have no answers for. It’s embarrassing that I'm struggling so much. But now I realize that just like it's okay as a youth to ask God if He loves you, it's okay as an adult to ask God where He is too. It doesn't mean you're ungrateful, prideful, faithless, or blind to the miracles and answers you've already had. Coming to God in your weakness, in your lowest places, at the times you’re broken, sinful, or in complete despair is evidence of faith. That you can still turn to Him— even if it's to question Him— is evidence of faith.

In fact, this question might sound a lot like the 180-year-old question Joseph Smith asked in section 121 of the Doctrine and Covenants as he cried out in liberty jail— “O God, where art thou?” I never put that together on my own until I was visiting with our bishop's wife last night to return her vacuum. I wasn't planning on sitting in her living room crying, but that's what happened. She tenderly reminded me that even Joseph Smith had asked the same question, and that he was a prophet of God.

Sometimes we lose the application of scripture because it's not said in the modern way we speak. but the good news is that God always answers back in the way that we speak and recognize. Sometimes we just have to ask, stand back, and open our eyes. He's right there.