I cried out to You once

from the floor beside a hospital bed,

my face wet against folded hands,

begging a God I had never seen

to spare the son

I had only just begun to know.

And You answered me.

You breathed life into failing lungs.

You let him stay.

You turned a room full of fear

into testimony.

So I built my faith

on that moment.

I made an altar

out of survival.

I pointed to my son and said,

There—

there is my proof

that God still works miracles.

And now he is gone.

So tell me, Lord—

what am I to do

with a faith built on a miracle

You allowed the world to take?

Did I misunderstand You?

Did I mistake mercy for a promise?

You spared him once only to let him be taken later. You let me believe

he was marked for something mighty,

and then You watched while blood soaked the road beneath him.

What am I to call that?

Because if this was Your will,

then Your will has crushed me.

And if it was not, then where were You

when death reached for him again?

Where was the God who filled his lungs as an infant when his chest rose for the last time? Where was the hand that once saved him when I needed it to save him again?

I ask You as Job asked

What have I done that You should count me as Your enemy? Why give me a miracle

only to turn him into memory? Why let me spend years believing he was spared for purpose if his story was always meant

to end in violence? 

Do not tell me You work all things for good

unless You are prepared to explain to a mother what good can possibly grow

from losing her child? 

Do not ask me to call this part of a plan

unless You will stand before me

and tell me how losing my son

builds anything holy.

I am not asking politely anymore.

I am pounding on heaven’s door

with bloodied fists. I am weeping in the ashes and demanding that if You are still God then speak. Tell me... Am I to be still

or to rise and fight? Am I meant to seek peace or to swing this grief

like a sword against every wrong that led to his death? Am I called to forgive

or called to make them answer?

Am I to tell the world that evil stole another mother’s son and heaven itself is furious?

Or am I to carry this suffering silently

and trust that someday You will make sense of it? Because I do not understand

the path before me. My miracle is gone.

My proof is gone. My compass is gone.

And I am standing here with the wreckage of my faith clutched in shaking hands

asking You the only thing I know to ask anymore....

What now, Lord? If there is still purpose in me, show me. If there is still work for me,

name it. If justice is mine to pursue, strengthen my hand. If peace is mine to learn, teach my heart. But do not leave me here wandering in the wilderness of a faith

that no longer knows what to do

with unanswered prayers .I do not know

if You are asking me to trust You, or to survive . I only know that I am still here

and he is not. And since there is breath

still in my lungs, then there must be something You expect from me.

So I am asking, not gently, not patiently,

but with the broken voice of a mother

who has run out of polite prayers, Show me.

Show me what to do with all this pain.

Show me what to do with all this anger.

Show me what to do with this love. 

Because You took my miracle home

before I was ready to let him go, then You owe me the courage to understand

why I am still here and what I am supposed to do.