You’re Not Annoying God

& other things you can say out loud.

Trigger warning: this is a post in which I grieve many things. What I talk about here might be too much for some readers. If you don’t have the capacity to sit with heavier topics like loss, betrayal or trauma right now, I completely understand. 

Song suggestion for your read: “Mine” by Ellie Holcomb. I know this song is meant to be parents singing over their child. But what if you listened as if God was singing it over you? Click here to listen as you read. 

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You’re allowed to talk about it. You have the right to speak up in safe places about that part of your story. You’re not bitter, you were broken by things that didn’t make sense. Not being able to stop thinking about it means your brain is trying to understand what devastated you. You’re not gossiping, you’re giving your body the tools it needs to process. You’re not holding a grudge, your body is trying to heal. 

You’re allowed to ask questions. You might not get answers, but you still deserve to have resources to help you regulate your nervous system. You’re allowed to work towards peace.

I’m sorry you didn’t have what you needed when it happened. I’m sorry you were alone. I’m sorry you weren’t believed. I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t even believe yourself because you were spending your energy trying to believe the best about someone who was abusing you (yes, it was abuse). 

I’m sorry you don’t feel safe in church or starting new friendships with women and no one understands why because you can’t talk about what happened in public settings. I’m sorry the things every Christian says you need sit like stones in your throat. 

I’m sorry when the babies came, you lost yourself. I’m sorry they told you being a wife and mother was God’s best for your life. I’m sorry they didn’t see you as worthy when your womb was young and empty.

I’m sorry you had to be silent when the insides of your body were screaming from the pain of betrayal. I’m sorry you’ve carried this invisible burden for so long it’s become parasitic; wearying your mind and chemically altering the way your brain delivers information to your body. 

I’m sorry they labeled you “too emotional” as a child and “a basketcase” as a woman. I’m sorry they called you unstable and weak. I’m sorry they refused to see you surviving postpartum depression while keeping two babies alive, alone in the dark because your husband worked night shifts for over a decade. I’m sorry they weaponized their own trauma and left you bleeding. 

You’re strong and you shouldn’t have had to feel strong like this. You’re resilient, and you shouldn’t have had to survive in the first place. Your story has redemption, and that doesn’t make the suffering any less real. 

You’re allowed to wonder why people who seem to have it worse than you are doing so well. You’re allowed to acknowledge your ancient family history of poverty, child marriage, abuse, murder and addiction aren’t the same as theirs. This is why you always feel ten steps behind everyone else when it comes to healing. 

You’re not the moral of the story. You’re not the punchline or point in a sermon. Your life and how it turns out is not your parents’ résumé. Your life is the story of God’s relationship with you. Slow down and listen to how He’s telling it. 

Let yourself grieve. Jesus stands ready to catch your tears. Let them fall.  It’s ok if you doubt God’s goodness right now. Tell Him. He already knows. Maybe He’s waiting for you to be honest with yourself so He can meet you there. 

You’re allowed to be tired. 

You’re allowed to be angry.

You’re allowed to sit in the ashes. 

You’re allowed to weep. 

You’re allowed to be scared to hope again.

You can claim victory and wish you’d never had to fight the battle at all. You can watch God weave redemption into your story while agreeing with Him it was never meant to be this way. 

It’s ok to yearn for things to be different even while you choose to trust God with the ache of the present. It’s ok to just be sad for a while. It’s ok to be baffled at what God is doing while knowing whatever happens will be His best good for you.

Let God bind your wounds. Let God be your place of rest. Let God show you how His ways make the places where ashes fall a rich ground for harvest in your future. 

You’re not annoying God. Everyone may be moving on, but God is not in a hurry with you. Let Him take His time. Things may feel like they’ll never change, but one morning you’ll wake up to find they did. 

As broken as you feel, it’s not your identity. As tangled as your thoughts are, they’re not too much for God. Let Him hover close and whisper until you believe it, “I’ve been here the whole time.”

“Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are continually before me.” -Isaiah 49:15-16

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Thank you for reading.

Writing this was cathartic. It’s not how I feel everyday. But this is how I felt when I wrote it near the recent anniversary of some Really Bad Days. Also, I have the God-sent resources of a husband, a therapist and a few select people who have walked these roads with me. It doesn’t mean the pain is removed. It does mean I’m going to be ok. For that I’m thankful. 

I have more good days than bad now. And (occasionally) I allow myself to acknowledge everything that’s happened and sit with the grief of it. Thus, this post. 

My prayer is that this goes beyond me and gives voice to things you haven’t been able to articulate within your own story.

God is faithful.