f*** it and I forgive You

"You know, not all of the songs on the radio are true," she said. It was Easter morning, and only two out of four of her kids were home. I was there, visiting.

"It says, 'You're never gonna let us down,' but that's not true is it," she continued, "because He does let us down."

Her home was covered in plants and shoes and cookbooks and fresh bread, and there were always kittens on the porch. She might tell you about the times God had let her down, if you asked. But usually she would just offer you a meal.

That morning something went wrong in her homemade bun process. They weren't able to rise or the proofing process was off, I can't remember. But it did set the timing for the meal back by a quarter of an hour.

We heard her cry from the second floor, "this is the worst Easter ever!" when she found out. We ran down expecting the worst, but nothing was burnt or inedible. No one appeared to be hurt.

The buns were ready by the time all the food had been passed around. Warm from the oven, the butter melted on them perfectly.

I remember thinking that her exclamation was silly, given that everything worked out within minutes.

Now I can almost taste my own ignorance as I puzzle-piece together the story from the corners of my memory. It wasn't about the buns.

"It's hard for me to be at big worship nights with all the first or second year college kids," she said.

"Every song is, You're so good, You're so great. I just look around at all the people with their hands in the air and the smiles on their faces. It's like, you just don't get it."

Later she told me that she was worried that if her mental framework collapsed, she'd lose God, too, because He existed inside of her mind.

I remember thinking that was a pretty high view of your own intellect. It seemed like heresy to me at the time, but I didn't say that. I could see how much it had hurt. Maybe I couldn't understand it, but I could see it.

I could see how dark living a life in a state of constant psychological and physiological fear would be. I could see how dark living in isolation was. I could see how dark uncertainty could feel.

But I didn't really have to deal with any of that.

She had an interesting way of breaking apart, and it never happened in front of me. But that winter she would give me glimpses of what life looked like in the dark. Strangely, it looked a lot like asking me how I was doing. Inviting me to coffee. Getting out of that house. Inviting me to that house.

She would be the one to teach me what depth really meant.

"There was this point that I got to," she said. "I just said, you know what? Fuck You, and I forgive You."

We were standing outside of a high school auditorium. The Little Mermaid had just ended and everyone was chatting in the common spaces, reconnecting with old friends.

She'd asked me something simple, like how life after college was going. I think I answered with a messy, human tangle of thoughts and emotions. At some point I probably said the word betrayal.

It's one thing to feel betrayed by someone who you know makes mistakes. It's another to feel betrayed by God.

Righteous God. Excellent and praiseworthy God. "You're never gonna let me down" God. Good, Good Father God.

Her betrayal was divorce. It was abuse within the church. It was spiritual trauma. It was a million things I didn't get the chance to hear about in the hallway.

But her story went, "Fuck You, and I forgive You."

It's not the clear-headed and level approach to a holy and perfect God who owes you nothing and wants the best for you. But who is clear-headed and level when their marriage breaks apart? When their kid lashes out? When their church is shattered by scandal?

Job, maybe.

I felt her words in my own story. In my own broken-down how could You?'s and my whimpered, shaky I trusted You!'s.

I felt it in the times I'd spent pounding my fists on the chest of the one person who was supposed to have good things for me and love me no matter what. Who was supposed to....

Who was supposed to.....

Let me live, I guess. Let her be happy. Fix my family. Mend her heart. Isn't He supposed to be a healer? A redeemer? A comforter?

But she knew what the people in all of my stories knew. God didn't owe them anything. They'd already been given life. And there are some questions you don't get the answers to.

That's the worst part, knowing you can get past what people have said and done and failed to do. You can get over that. But it's hard to get over feeling like you gave your all to the One who knows your heart and intentions, only to feel punished for it.

You could live there, with angry daggers for hands, swinging at the God who made you. Or you could give up the chase. Let the love of God enfold you, some will say. Or discover he actually isn't real. Whatever comes next, you can't hold on to that betrayal forever.

So she said, Fuck You. And I forgive You.

i feel like god doesn't love me, I texted her. because i keep seeking him and asking him to heal me and he doesnt't.

Always the comforter, she responded with kind and gentle words about how I mattered. To her, to God, to eternity.

i know that's true, I said, but i just feel so betrayed by god.

Always the truth teller, she told me she'd been there before. It was hard, she agreed. So I asked her how she got out.

Her recommendation was lament. And then action, and a setting aside of self that would uplift. But first lament, she said.

The words were helpful, but I was frustrated and hurt. I was confused. If He could handle it, why wouldn't He heal it?

that's so dumb!!! was my response. when people love you they act like it.

Always the realist, she messaged me back:

Well, if you want to tell God that He's dumb and doesn't love you that's your prerogative. If you want to define how He should and shouldn't interact with you. But know this: God is not "people." He is God. There is a difference.

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