Lately, I have been pretty stinking angry with Jesus. I don’t understand why I’m going through what I’m going through. I don’t know why God finds it necessary to put me through so much. To test my faith and take my hope. And I am pissed about it.
The anger, it ebbs and flows. Through it all, I keep praying, journaling my gratitude and prayers, and I keep going to church. Eventually, I hear a reading or a song that speaks to me. I cry. I hear him. I pray harder and live better and want less. I begin to trust and have hope again. Yet sometimes I still feel stuck in the quagmire of bullshit that makes up the current state of affairs. And the cycle starts again.
Sunday evening I was just broken. I knew in my heart of hearts that Jesus was the only one who was going to love me no matter what, but dammit I just needed something. Some contact. A hug from someone who made it feel like everything was going to be okay, you know?? I had come to my wit’s end. I sat in the pew, just silently crying, hoping to feel the warmth of love. A hug. Something. Anything to let me know I wasn’t alone in all this. I got Fr. Matthew asking if I was okay. In retrospect, I couldn’t have asked for much more. Fr. Matt and I, we have a relationship. I talk to him about all kinds of stuff, all the time. So I asked him if everybody gets angry with God. He laughed and told me it wouldn’t be a real relationship if people didn’t every once in a while. You fight then you talk. You make-up and you become closer and stronger.
So I guess this is where I choose to trust. To have faith in his plans. To believe there is a purpose in all of that. And let my struggle strengthen my faith instead of crush it.