When you're angry with God

I hate that God is doing this to me!

He yells, helpless, crying, at a loss for any other words but the truth.

I hate that He has given me this cross, and He is not taking it away.

I hate that I continue to suffer, and I never know when it will end.

I hate that the Lord can work miracles, but He won't do so in me.

These are the words of helplessness at the end of its rope. These are the words of people and situations that find no relief, that find no solace, that find no place other than despair.

And these are the moments that you are ANGRY with God.

Resentment. Anger. Hopeless. Untrusting. Scared. Let down.

My husband has quietly struggled with an anxiety disorder for the past four years. I have seen a strong, capable man become weak before me, crippled at the state of this disease that will not let up. I have seen the leader of our family fall to his knees in bitter tears screaming to a God he thinks has forgotten him.

And I sit there, and silently suffer in my own way while watching this disorder tackle my husband to the ground and continue to press on even when he's already down.

I sit there, and I just watch him cry and yell and struggle, because I have no words to bring him peace. I have no words to bring him hope.

It's all been said before. 

They've all been said before.

I know that my husband will conquer this disorder. I KNOW it, in my heart. But to him, all hope is lost. To him, he has exhausted all his options. To him, he yells to a God who turns away His ear.

Sometimes there are no words to say to a grieving friend who has yet another loss of a child; there are no words to say to your spouse as they fade into the darkness of mental illness; there are no words to say to the friends who struggle with infertility, or hyper-fertility, or divorce, or death, or sickness, or poverty, or, or, or...

Sometimes there are no words.

But there is presence. And there is acknowledgment. 

There is sitting there, in silence, watching their anger and their frustrations play out, and not getting up, and not leaving, and not saying, "This is enough!"

But it is still being there, at the end of the tears, at the end of the yelling, at the end of seeing them weaker than you've seen them before.

It is still being there, through the middle, all the way to the end.

And it's saying,

"We will get through this. You are not alone. I am here."

I am here.

I am here.