“My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” Just a few weeks ago, I asked the same question that’s raised in the Palm Sunday Psalm response: “Why, God?” And I also asked, “How could You let this happen?” and “Don’t You love me and want what is best for me, because this can’t possibly be it?”
I was, and still am, struggling with grief. I had worked continuously for more than a year on an extremely important project and presentation. My whole prison life had revolved around it – time, energy, conversations and a million prayers. I felt God’s presence during my preparation as He helped me grow in courage and strength. Family and friends had been lighting candles and praying with fervor as the due date for my project slowly approached.
When the day finally arrived, I was ready! I was prepared! Not only did I have an army of supporters behind me, I had God beside me, and I gave the presentation of a lifetime. I walked out of the room feeling heard, understood and very hopeful for a positive outcome.
Weeks passed, as is standard procedure, and I was percolating somewhere between confidence and trepidation, on the verge of nausea every single day. Oh, the waiting was so difficult! Patience is not my strong suit, so, for Lent, I was going to give up complaining about God’s timeline.
And then the unthinkable happened.
The answer came in an email – an impersonal, emotionless, undisputable, big fat “No.” It was like a sledgehammer to my heart. With one whack, it was obliterated. All my hopes, dreams, sweat and tears were splattered everywhere. My project had not been good enough. My work didn’t matter and was ignominiously tossed in the garbage. By extension, I had not been good enough. I didn’t matter and was also tossed away.
That’s when I asked all those “Where are You” questions, plus “How do I just go on and face hundreds of tomorrows when I can’t see past today? What about all those people who prayed for me? Didn’t You hear them? Don’t I even matter to You?” These played on a loop in my head because God was eerily silent.
Anger and confusion joined forces to add to my misery. I was confused by the rejection and the harsh words used to rationalize it. I was angry because the opinions of the decision makers had redefined my existence, and there was no recourse.
I was told that God gave people free will and sometimes their decisions were disturbing to Him. So did that make them more powerful? Because the God I knew would never decide this. Why did I bother praying if He wasn’t going to help? Who was I supposed to be mad at – them or Him?
I chose both.
Then sadness emerged, and it was so frightening, so engulfing, that it felt like a physical threat, like a 50-foot tidal wave looming out of nowhere, paralyzing me with its enormity. I couldn’t run or escape or swim my way out. It was too big, and I’m too little. Maybe I should’ve seen it coming, but I didn’t, and it swept me under.
Repeatedly, I found myself crying, venting or otherwise coming undone in the safety of the chaplain’s or my therapist’s office. They let me know I wasn’t crazy, I was going through the grieving process, and it was normal. Phew! I was thankful to hear that because trying to make sense of all my emotions was as futile as carrying water in a bucket full of holes.
At Mass, where I had the job of leading the congregation in song, I was apprehensive because I thought my voice would crack, revealing the brokenness of my entire being. Singing took everything I had, but I did it for the women present. They deserved music and normalcy, despite my personal suffering.
Miraculously, they didn’t notice any difference. I was still trying to be a good servant, but my efforts, combined with my unanswered questions, added to my frustration. I was bargaining with God, albeit unintentionally. I thought perhaps He would see my herculean efforts, be pleased and change His mind.
Hoping physical exertion would help unravel the knot of feelings in my gut, I went to the gym almost daily and rode the stationary bike 10 miles to nowhere. I threw the Slam Ball down to the ground as hard as I could, over and over, until I could hardly pick it up anymore. The exhaustion made me comfortably numb, which I appreciated, but it was temporary.
Eventually, I reached a point of reckoning in my grief. You either believe God is God – omniscient, omnipresent, loving, holy and in total control – or you don’t, and then all you’ve got is a sometime-y superhero who can’t control anything.
Psalm 31:14 says it more succinctly: “You are my God.” The prophet Jeremiah wrote this Psalm when he was hurt by the injustice and persecution he was facing, yet he decided to trust God anyway. He had to lean on his faith.
I decided to lean on mine, too. So, just as grief had done earlier, now faith was going to have to become a physical entity, propelling me forward. But would I be able to back up my faith with words, and my words with actions? Can I serve and love Him with my broken heart? Can I trust Him?
The short answer is “Yes” because there is no other way. He is the way and has the only map. However, it’s going to be a slow process, and we have to work on our relationship. We’re not as copasetic as a year ago. It’s taking some time for me to recover and refocus. I can’t just say, “Gee whiz, God, I’m fine now, let’s get back to business.”
In light of working through my grief, I have a new perspective and mission for Holy Week. I need to humble myself, ask forgiveness for doubting and for strength to carry on. I need to trust in the compassion, mercy and love of God, even when I seem to have 17 Good Fridays in a row.
The Passion of Jesus is proof that I won’t understand God’s ways. The Resurrection of Jesus is proof of God’s unconditional love for me and for all of us. We don’t have to understand; however, we do have to trust. And prison is going to be my personal proving ground to do just that.
Michele Williams is an inmate at the Ohio Reformatory for Women in Marysville.