With one phone call, my life changed. Believing the phone was my alarm clock, I clumsily answered with eyes still closed to hear my sister’s voice, full of adrenaline and fear. My mom had been rushed to the Emergency Room because of stomach pain. Through a series of tests over the next week, her doctors advised routine surgery to remove her gall bladder. But during surgery, more problems were discovered, and my mom’s bloodstream became toxic. She died three days later due to organ failure.

As I gathered my belongings from her hospital room, the book that I had been reading, “Trusting God” by Jerry Bridges, awakened a new form of anger in me.

Instead of packing the book in my bag, I threw it in the trash can.

As you might guess, I didn’t understand God. Doubt seemed to grow with every “Why?” question. With every religious platitude spoken to me, I tuned out a little bit more. My faith was on the line.

What does “having faith” even mean?

For me, fourteen years later, it means knowing God choreographs beauty into the trials.


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