I Was Mad at God

“Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life, whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst” John 6:34 (ESV),

I have always loved God. I have always talked to God. Always. But one time, I was mad at God. MAD. Capital letter MAD. Mad, like, “I am not talking to you mad.” Being diagnosed with cancer was a head trip. I guess I thought that my love for God, my frantic good works and my specific prayer to avoid our “family curse” would spare me somehow. So, to be diagnosed with the very thing I prayed against for years seemed like the ultimate slap in the face. Not only did I have cancer, but my medical way out, if it worked, was going to be extreme and prolonged. So God? My Father and my best friend? I still loved Him, but I was not talking to Him. I was mad.

Ten years later, I now realize the value of how God worked that experience in my life for my good. The lessons are too many to keep track of. Sometimes, something will happen, and I will realize that without my cancer, amazing things would not have happened.

But at the beginning of the storm, I had decided that not talking to God, a full-out spiritual hissy fit, was how it would be. He wasn’t listening, so why should I speak to Him? It is almost laughable now, but this angry spiritual protest was the best I could dish out then. My anger went on for days, not talking to God, marching along solo, adding untold misery to my waiting for treatment.

I came up with many ways to distract myself in the storm while I was waiting for surgery. I tried to look for things to cheer me up, and one day; I thought that eating cheesy breadsticks from The Olive Garden would make me happy. I felt I was dying, so it didn’t matter if I ended up a size or two bigger before I died, so why not eat bread without abandon? When I recall that story and say that The Olive Garden was “my restaurant choice” for my last supper on earth, I laugh out loud. At the time, though, none of this was at all funny. I was mad at God, and I was going out to dinner, and He wasn’t invited.

My husband drove me to Watertown to find the closest Olive Garden and the unlimited breadsticks I thought would make my waiting easier. I played the music loudly on the ride down, played a fake keyboard on the dashboard and sang songs on the radio to fill the space where any quiet conversation with God would be in my mind. I got my cheesy breadsticks: a whole basket and a refill.

As you might have guessed, the miserable feeling I felt leaving the restaurant had nothing to do with the amount of bread I ate. I was abysmally sad. I was alone. I missed my best friend, and I realized this whole day spent driving and eating had done nothing but make me more miserable. I missed God. I missed the conversation. I missed the company. I started crying in the car, and nothing my husband could say could calm me down to get me to stop. There are things that only Jesus can do in the storms of life.

Unsure how to start talking to God again, I realized in the car that Jesus was literally in the car with us, quietly along for the noisy ride to get breadsticks. As I frantically and angrily hit the buttons to find another loud song (I had deleted the Christian station), an old 80’s song came on called Kyrie Eleison by a band called Mister Mister.

Having been raised the daughter of a devout Anglican and a devout Catholic, Kyrie Eleison was as familiar as everything I was trying to avoid in Jesus. Kyrie was part of every Sunday service I ever went to. Kyrie meant worship. Kyrie Eleison, Hebrew for, “Lord, soothe me, comfort me, take away my pain with your steadfast love and have mercy on me.” And there it was, blaring on mainstream radio as we drove home.

At that moment, in the car, I started to settle and something in me said, “Sing.” Another part of me knew that if I sang this song, it would be a sign of defeat, the white flag of surrender that I needed some help while I waited in my cancer storm. And I realized in a few lines of the song that Jesus had never left. He was in the back seat of the car all along, so I started to sing. It wasn’t like the singing from before, but it was quiet singing as an act of submission, an act of faith, and asking for my best friend back.

“Kyrie Eleison, down the road I must travel, Kyrie Eleison through the darkness of the night. Kyrie Eleison, where You go, I will follow”. And in the simple act of forcing myself to sing, the peace that filled the car and the rest of the ride home is something that I will never forget. God wasn’t mad at me. He was along for the ride, all of it. And looking back, I can see He was faithful for five years of challenges.

On that trip to The Olive Garden, I learned a lesson that I will never forget. God’s shoulders are big, and He can manage the upsets and hissy fits when we struggle while we wait.

He never leaves us.

He hears us.

He loves us.

He is trustworthy.

He is your Father and best friend.

The storms will come to all of us. Often, we have to wait out hard and long stormy seasons. It will be so much easier to persevere if you keep God close and know that He already knows the plan and your way out. So hang on tight! You will get there!