I mentioned my struggle with God earlier. It was epic. I did not give up hope until Wyatt's heart beat for the very last time. I went to church, I prayed, I gave thanks. Then it just all came tumbling down. I would go to church and just sit there and cry. It became so difficult I just stopped going. Twenty-five years down the tube just like that. Only one fragment remained. I was angry at God but I had to keep believing in Him. Without Him, I could not find my son, I could not imagine him being taken care of. I could not hope to join him. It's a dangerous precipice to question one's faith, but in my experience, a worthwhile journey.
All of the platitudes and religious viewpoints offered to me by people I believed much more knowledgeable and faithful than I was could not withstand my questions. If you accept just one statement it sounds great and can be rationalized, but when you try to fit that statement into your entire faith and knowledge of God, it was like a bad movie when the hero mysteriously reaches for a not-there-before bazooka to kill the bad guy. It's just not believable and leaves you with a bad taste in your mouth which sours the whole thing.
My struggle with all of these questions and my search for answers lasted at least five years. Five years after Wyatt's birth, probably almost to the day, I found my way back to church. After all that time I still teared up occasionally, but I continued to go. I volunteered to teach kindergarten faith class and had made some kind of workable peace. Then my world came crashing down again.
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