“I feel guilty…I haven’t prayed in weeks.”
The words were a lie, of course–not the part about praying but the part about feeling. I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel anything really, but I figured that I ought to feel something and pretending to feel bad seemed like a good start. Only it wasn’t. Because I didn’t– feel bad, that is.
Here is what I know: two years ago, my son was diagnosed with an irreparable disability and the truth of this has slowly altered my already feeble faith. My footing is unsure and my confidence is frail. I want to trust. I want to look my son in the eye and tell him that God will protect him from harm–but I know it isn’t true.
What once was comfort is now confusion. I hear the story of the blind man and wrestle with doubt. I read of the paralytic and wrestle with envy. I struggle with the very idea of healing when I see that my child, and each of us, is a creature of our earthly habitat– prone to the same brokenness and decay as the immovable oak rising just outside my kitchen window. Still beautiful, still worthy of sunlight, still rejoicing– yet bending to the breeze.
It is time to admit that the landscape of my beliefs has changed.
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