One Of Your Many Children

[CW: Mention of character death]

Are you there, God? It’s me, one of your many children that just lost someone very important to them. I’m not going to ask why, because I know I’ll just get one of those vague answers like “I needed her home”. I always do. And not even from you; I only ever hear it from anyone else. Why is that, God? Why, with all your infinite love, can’t you give an answer to someone that’s hurting?

People can say what they want, but I’m not sure I believe that it was just her time. She had so much left to do- she’d only just gotten started.

Let’s suppose that it was simply part of your plan for her to die. What about her plans, God? Why can’t those be important enough to preserve her life here?

I suppose I’ll never know.

Are you there, God? It’s me, one of your many children that doesn’t believe this. How could this happen to someone that was there only a month ago, grinning up at me with that gap between her two front teeth and that sparkle in her eye? How could this happen to someone that only just blew out the candles on her eighth birthday cake?

How could this happen to someone that only got to spend eight years with her mother?

She only got eight years.

Last time I spoke to you, I said I wasn’t sure I believed that it was her time. Now I can confidently say that I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. Eight years is barely enough time to make a mother fall completely in love with this bright, energetic child that will never find out why she would ever need multiplication. Eight years is barely enough time to make the permanent separation of parent and child also become the permanent separation of parent and optimism. But barely enough is still enough. 

I never quite understood pessimists, but now I think I’m beginning to.

Are you there, God? It’s me, one of your many children that is angry. Why would you allow this? What state of ignorance do you live in that would make you believe this to be something anyone could get over? At least when you lose a child, you always get them back. You have a sense of certainty. What about the rest of us, God? Why can’t the rest of us have that? Why would you keep it all to yourself? Can’t you see how selfish that is?

They call you a loving God, but I’m beginning to wonder if you even love any of us at all.

Will she be happy now, God? Will she enjoy the after to the life she never truly got to live? She deserves nothing less. She deserves worlds, galaxies, universes. Will she get them?

Please make sure she does. It’s the least you could do.

Are you there, God? It’s me, one of your many children that can’t do this anymore. I can’t even pretend to be getting over it. She wouldn’t want me to feel like this, I know. But she’s not here anymore.

She’s not here.

And that’s just how it will be, God, isn’t it? She won’t be here ever again, not as long as I live. It doesn’t matter how much I miss her, it doesn’t matter that her absence is a hole in my heart that my body can’t fix, it doesn’t matter that I can’t do anything without thinking about her anymore.

She’s not here.

She lives on in my memory, but you of all beings should know that human memories fail more often than not.

You of all beings should know that human memories aren’t enough.

So I have a question for you now.

Was it worth it?

Will it be worth it to know that one of your children, who just lost her own child, will be in pain? Will it be worth it to know that one of your children, who just lost her own child, will never know how long the pain will last?

Consider that the next time you’re deliberating about separating another mother from her daughter.

Are you there, God? It’s me, one of your many children who wants answers. I’ve asked you so many questions over the years. I’ve waited patiently for your response. I’ve put parts of my life on hold to wait for you.

I’m still waiting.

I’m still here, immobile, waiting with bated breath for your response.

Why haven’t you given one?

Will you ever give one?

Will it be worth the time I’ve wasted waiting?

I don’t think it will be.

Are you there, God? It’s me, one of your many children who isn’t sure you are anymore. You never reply; you never give any indication that you’ve even heard the question. Your servants always tell me to look at the nuances of life, to find the minor things that could somehow indicate that you’re there.

But all I see are minor things that don’t indicate much of anything unless you assign meaning to them.

I want to believe in you, God. I do. I want to live in a world where I can dedicate my whole life to you because, somehow, I just know that you’re there. Because, somehow, I just know that you’re listening.

But I suppose all of us want things that we can’t have.

You’re not there, God. Not for me. Perhaps others will still believe in you. Perhaps others will still do works they believe you would want, perhaps others will still spread your word, perhaps others will still promise themselves to you, perhaps others will still dedicate their entire lives to the all-powerful, convoluted, impossible idea of you.

But I won’t be one of them anymore.

And, if you do exist, perhaps this will make you angry. Perhaps you will decide to make me pay for this, from the moment I came to this decision until the day I die.

That is a risk I’m willing to take.

Thank you for the years of comfort you’ve given me at the idea of your existence. I can take it from here.