It was my own fault for bringing God into the conversation as I did. So when I told my child (I’m keeping this gender-neutral to respect some privacy) that we had reached a hard decision, a hard and big decision my child had prayed wouldn’t come to pass, I should have expected what followed:
“So is it that God just doesn’t care about us? What good is God if he doesn’t help us when we ask him to? Why would he make us do something we don’t want to do? What kind of God is he?” And on and on the questions went.
I wished in that moment I would have had some great answers, some comforting mother-to-child, perfect-pitched “theology for grade-schoolers” rhetoric to offer. But all I had were shrugs, and “I don’t knows.” While others may have offered chastisement for blaspheming or being self-centered or whatever, I wasn’t in a place to do that.
Instead I confessed that I had asked all these same questions.
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