Faith in the Middle of the Mess

I haven’t made most of my posts overly faith-driven, and that’s on purpose. I know not everyone feels close to God in grief. Some of you are hanging onto faith by a thread; or maybe you’ve let go for a while. Grief can do that. It can make even the most faithful person feel like God went quiet. I, however, consider myself a person of unwavering faith. By that, I mean I know what I believe, and I’m confident in that belief. There’s nothing anyone could say that would shake it.

Now, before anyone nominates me for sainthood, let’s be clear: I am far from flawless. I’ve had plenty of moments where my attitude (and more often my mouth) could use prayer, not applause.

I say this to bring up a delicate issue - the angry part of grieving. When Robert died, I was never angry with God for taking him, when or even why He did. That surprises people. I’ve been asked more than once, “You mean you weren’t mad at God? Not even a little?” No, I was not. I’ve been sad, broken, and downright confused, but anger never felt like the right response. I’ve questioned the timing, I’ve replayed the what-ifs (a little too much sometimes); I’ve asked the old “why him, why now” question that never actually gets answered, but I never blamed God for being God. I still believe there is purpose in everything, even what hurts.

Maybe it’s because I’ve lived long enough to know that being faithful doesn’t mean being exempt. Faith isn’t a trade agreement. It’s not, “I’ll believe, and You keep tragedy away.” It’s, “I’ll believe, even when tragedy comes.” That’s not easy. I’ve had nights where belief felt more like muscle memory than conviction. But every time I tried to point blame, the circle always came back to one truth: death is never a punishment - that's not how God works.

For those who wrestle with it, the questions sound something like, “So you just accepted it? No anger? No fight?” Fair questions. Acceptance didn’t come gift-wrapped. It was built in pieces, usually between tears and laundry. It came from choosing to trust that God wasn’t cruel, even when I didn’t like His plan. I don’t believe He “took” Robert like someone grabbing a toy off a shelf. I believe He received him. That’s a different kind of taking.

Some say faith without anger sounds like denial. On the surface, it can look like you’re skipping a step. People expect grief to come with fire - anger, shouting, protest. If you don’t show those things, it can make others wonder if you’re suppressing them, or you don't care.

Anger is a visible emotion. It proves to the world that you’ve been hurt. When you meet loss with quiet faith instead, it unsettles people who equate noise with honesty. They may think you’re bypassing grief, when you might simply be grieving differently. If you’ve faced the loss, named what it cost you, and still believe God is who He says He is, that’s not denial, it’s endurance. Denial hides from pain. Faith walks through it without needing to throw a chair along the way.

When we skip the "rage stage", it’s not that we don’t feel deeply, it’s that we’ve already decided who to trust with the answers we’ll never get. Anger is part of grief for many, and it’s not wrong when it shows up. For some of us, grief doesn’t explode, it seeps. It sneaks into grocery stores, holidays, and quiet mornings. It doesn’t need yelling to be real. Being faithful doesn’t protect you from pain, it gives you a way to survive it. Faith is what let me look up and say, “I don’t understand You right now, but I still trust You.”

Faith and grief travel the same road. Faith says God is good; grief says life is not. Holding both takes practice, but they can stand side by side without canceling each other out. Whether you wrestle with God or rest in Him, neither makes you more faithful or less human. Faith changes with time; it grows quieter, but truer. What’s left is simple: “I still believe.”

Whether you’re angry or at peace, keep talking to Him. That conversation is the proof of faith itself.

With Grace for the mess,

~Stef