For When You’re Mad at God

The problem with crying for days is it tires me out—mind, body, and soul. Coherent thought drains away. Gumption to struggle through is gone. Finding my tears can’t change the outcome is a shock, my mind numb to what’s next. The only reality seems to be the ugly pit of feelings I find myself in, slack and spent.

That’s when my tears change from the salt of sadness into the fire of anger. When I think I’ve cried all there is to cry and yet more tears flow over my raw, cracked skin, something boils up inside. I’m mad. Mad, mad, mad! My heart cries, “Unfair!” and demands to know if God sees me. The list of credits I’ve logged to my account through obedience, walking hard roads, and following calls is held up in my shaking fist as proof I don’t deserve this. I don’t want it, and I’m screaming in frustration at my inability to bend God to my will. Suddenly yesterday’s truth of comfort, that everything comes from God’s hand, feels like a sharp prod pushing me into a dark and scary place.

How do I trust him when I’m angry with him? When I pray, the only words that comes out are “No! Not this! Not today! Not to them! Not this much! Don’t you see how much you are hurting me? Don’t you care?”

I don’t want God this way—outside of my understanding, doing greater things with me than what I’ve asked, doing things I don’t understand, things that have a purpose I can’t yet see. Today I’m desperate for a God who is safe and clean. A God who pats me on the back and gives me a gold star after service instead of handing me a dirtier, more impossible assignment before I’ve even caught my breath. I want a break. I want God to see my limits where I see them and I want him to do things my way.

My head tells me what I believe deep inside: Praise is the greatest weapon. God is good and he’s proven that over and over again. Walking in the dark with him is better than walking in the light alone. But in this moment I have only honest anger to offer him. The only prayer I can pray is a demand that God keep his promises.

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I say what I feel, but I still pray. I argue about what I’m hearing out loud but I don’t change the station when Laura Story’s song about blessings comes over my car speakers. I wake up and I take a shower and I tell the truth when friends ask how I’m doing. I’m wrestling with God.

Today’s worship is going to have to be persistence and questions because that’s all I have. Mustering up the courage to turn my face toward the pain instead of side-stepping and hedging is evidence of the strongest faith I’ve got.

I’m banking on those responses being acceptable to him, believing he really does store up my tears and walks with me through shadows. I’m hoping pounding my fists against his chest as I cry is evidence that I’m his child, firmly in his lap. I’m determined to stay until I feel his arms around me again. And through it all, I know it’s ok that I’m mad at him. He still loves me.

Lori Florida’s life is all about her people. She’s convinced that being Mrs. to one and Mommy to eight will be her most significant way to serve Jesus. She wants to use her life to cheer on and coach the women coming behind her. Lori blogs at loriflorida.com.

Photograph © Toa Heftiba, used with permission

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