There is a version of my life I used to live, one that felt moored to a dependable certainty. That certainty was my faith. I believed in a God who, if not always gentle, was at least good, and whose plan, even when painful, would ultimately lead to a positive resolution.
Lately, that certainty has vanished, replaced by a hollow, echoing silence.
The list of recent trials has become a physical weight I can barely manage to lift: the creeping, terrifying reality of losing my eyesight, the sudden shock of an accident that injured my hand, the mounting pressure of financial burdens that leave me breathless, and the deep, aching chasm of family problems and lack of support. When all this pain collides, it doesn’t just feel like a series of unfortunate events; it feels like a targeted assault.
The question I find myself whispering into the dark is not, “Why me?” but rather, “Where is God in this?”
I was taught that faith is an anchor in the storm. But when the waves crash so high, I don’t feel anchored—I feel like I’m being dragged under. I look at my life—the struggle to see, the inability to work, the paralyzing grip of depression and mental breakdowns—and I don’t see a loving Father’s plan. I see a cruel indifference.
Perhaps the most difficult part is reconciling the pain with the promise. How can a benevolent power allow such relentless suffering to descend on one person?
I’m no longer afraid to admit it: I am losing my faith. The traditional answers feel hollow and patronizing. It’s a test. God works in mysterious ways. These phrases, once comforting, now sting with a profound lack of empathy for the lived reality of this suffering.
For now, I have stopped trying to force the belief. I’m letting myself be honest about the anger, the doubt, and the profound sense of abandonment. Maybe this is where the real faith journey begins—not in blind acceptance, but in confronting the silence.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know if my vision will worsen or if the debts will overwhelm me. But I do know that surviving this, one agonizing day at a time, is enough. And if God is real, He will have to meet me here, in the rubble, not in the brightly lit sanctuary I used to call home.