The Story Between Storms

April 27

This is more than grief.
This is betrayal.

Because I didn’t just believe in God—I believed in who He said He was.
A protector. A healer. A keeper of promises.
A Father who loves His children.

So where was that God when she was dying?

Where was that God when I was sent home bleeding and broken, sitting in the WIC office trying to get a breast pump for a baby who might not make it?

Where was that God when twenty pumps were hooked to her fragile body and machines were the only thing keeping her alive?

Where was that God when she flatlined?

Where was that God when I held her against my chest for the first time… and felt her take her last breath?

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People say “God can handle your anger.”

But what if I don’t want to bring it to Him?
What if I don’t want to talk to the One who let me suffer like this?
What if I don’t want to be comforted by the hands that crushed me?

I don’t want to pray.
I don’t want verses.
I don’t want promises.

I want answers.
I want justice.
I want her.

And nothing spiritual makes that feel better.

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I’m not in the part of the story where faith redeems everything.
I’m not ready for the “beauty from ashes” arc.
Right now, all I see are ashes. And I hate that God allowed the fire.

So if this part of my journey makes someone uncomfortable—so be it.

I’m not trying to be inspirational.
I’m just trying to survive the wreckage of what I thought I knew about God.