My faith crumbled after I lost my mother. In full transparency, it was all the time slightly delicate and fragile. My mother’s life was built upon faith; it’s why she raised me within the pews of the church. Since she was my absolute favorite person on the earth, I all the time held an allegiance to anything she believed in—even once I didn’t fully comprehend what it was or what it meant.
Faith and Jesus were a number of of those things.
They all the time felt so abstract, so hard to know. With time, I grew to search out the identical hope, love, and opportunities in Christianity that my mother did. I never felt as boldly faithful as many of the congregation or other believers, but I believed.
And so, I prayed.
And I trusted.
And then my 57-year-old mother died, a girl who built her life around serving others and making this world a greater place.
Of all people to die prematurely—before retirement and grey hair, before so many life experiences—she must have been last on the list. I went from praising the Lord to being His biggest critic. I went from feeling like faith was my comfort to feeling like my faith was a sham.
I used to be indignant and bitter, unable to understand the incontrovertible fact that my mother was gone. Fearful and anxious, unsure move through this life without her. I barely felt sufficiently old, or mature enough, to live this reality and every day that may come without her.
“The Lord is near the brokenhearted and saves those that are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18
This verse looks like a balm now, but I felt removed from saved or comforted back then. I felt alone, as if the very God who promised to be with us in our suffering had left me to wrestle with grief I couldn’t carry.
And then I felt shame for having lost the religion that my mother built.
And then I felt embarrassed by the version of me that appeared after losing her.
And then I felt paralyzed by a pain I’d never experienced and one deeper than I’d ever felt.
And someday, in absolute despair and desperation, unable to stand up off the ground, which had grow to be my haven—the bottom place I could possibly be to match the deepest longing and hopelessness I’d ever felt—I yelled to God.
I begged for answers. I begged for solace. I begged for time to show back and for things to be different. I begged for a heart that might heal from this tragedy. I begged for my mother, wherever she could also be, to be at peace and know she is loved. I begged for this grief not to alter me in harmful and irreparable ways.
I begged, and I begged, and I begged.
And right there, on my scratchy carpet floor, I noticed that each one this pleading and begging was really a cry for help—a prayer.
“Cast all of your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.” – 1 Peter 5:7
At that moment, I forged my heavy soul onto God, even when I didn’t fully recognize it.
But how can I pray if I now not imagine? Why would I start a conversation with someone I lacked faith in or trusted?
I wouldn’t—which meant that even within the darkest places of my mourning, I believed. My faith had been shattered and unrecognizable. It had been hard to search out and hidden, however it remained.
My faith wasn’t like that of so many I knew. It was breakable. It was difficult. It was hard-fought.
It was imperfect.
But it remained.
“Though He slays me, yet will I hope in Him.” – Job 13:15
This verse, like my faith, doesn’t feel pretty. It feels jagged, scarred by loss and tragedy. But this very rough-around-the-edges faith has kept me going. I even have found a deeper truth in my mess: God never asked for perfection. He asked for trust, even the smallest seed of it. He asks us to return, bruised and weary and lay our burdens down.
And so, I did. My faith was breakable but capable of be mended and built again—dare I say, even stronger than before. My faith was difficult, but I could endure the struggle, the questions, the fear, and the frustration. And greater than anything, my faith was hard-fought since it was price fighting for. It was price determining by myself, even when it was messy and didn’t resemble the beautiful faith of others.
And I’m okay with that. I’d quite hold a faith built by hard times and heartbreak than one built upon the naïve beliefs of those untouched by life’s pain and chaos.
My faith has been through the fireplace. It was buried six feet under on a hot day in July and still resurfaced. It has been with me in wonderful moments, but more importantly, within the ones that might take my life, too.
“We also glory in our sufferings, because we all know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.” – Romans 5:3-4
This hope—born from the soil of loss and pain—has given me latest strength. I even have learned to hold grief and beauty, lean on God even when life feels unbearable, and trust that He will turn my ashes into beauty.
This is the religion I’m happy with—one forged in sorrow, strengthened by survival and held together not by perfection but by resilience. It’s the form of faith that doesn’t must be whole to be holy, the type that shatters and rebuilds with every ache and each prayer, proving that even within the wreckage, there continues to be a glimmer of hope price holding on to.
“For I do know the plans I even have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and never to harm you, plans to provide you hope and a future.” – Jeremiah 29:11
This verse may not erase the pain, however it helps me see that even through my mother’s absence, God has a future for me. In her memory and the religion she passed on, I see a path forward—one which I’m determined to walk, broken, sometimes difficult to understand, but unafraid.
In moments of doubt and despair, I remind myself that my faith could also be breakable and flawed, however it is real. Even once I stumble, God holds me close. In the tip, this faith—battle-worn, shaped by sorrow, and sure by resilience—is enough.
A tough-fought faith continues to be faith, which is likely to be probably the most encouraging.
Photo Credit: ©Getty Images/Fizkes
