What are we doing here, God?
Walking the halls of the Children’s Hospital in Baton Rouge, I’ve asked this question more times than I can count: What are we doing here, God?
I’ve whispered it staring at my bald baby girl. I’ve prayed it in the sterile quiet of hospital rooms. We’ve stood in the fire before and stayed faithful — but this time, I find myself wrestling.
Lately, I’ve told my wife that I just don’t feel right. My motivation for life outside of our family and the hospital is gone. Normally I’m a social person, but right now I’m just angry — a lot. This blog is an attempt to channel that anger, to use something evil for good. For me, anger can’t be managed internally; it has to move somewhere, so I’m writing.
One of the great joys of my week used to be leading a men’s group. I started it because I was new in town, in a new season of life, freshly baptized, and desperate to grow — to be a better husband, father, and man of faith. Those guys have become my brothers. But since May, I haven’t been able to show up regularly. Physically, I can’t. Spiritually, I feel like a fraud.
I tell those men to stand firm in their faith — and here I am, angry and questioning God. I still believe in Him completely. I’ve dedicated my life to serve Him. But I’m questioning His methods; and I hate that.
Mike Tyson once said, “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” That’s what this season feels like. You can go to church, talk about faith, and feel on fire for God. But when life punches you in the mouth — when it’s your child — the plan changes.
And yet… I find comfort in knowing that Jesus Himself wept. He asked for His burden to be lifted if there was another way. But then He said, “Not my will, but Yours be done.”
That’s where I am today.
If nobody reads this, that’s okay. If one person reads it and gains even a spark of hope, I’ll be honored — and I believe God will be, too.
This space — this blog — is called Hopified. It’s a blend of hope and fortified. Hope that’s been tested and still stands. Paul wrote in his letter to the Corinthians about faith, hope, and love. Hope is what keeps you from giving up. Hope matters.
Several months ago, I was standing in the hospital hallway talking to my daughter’s oncologist. She had just given me some hard news after weeks of uncertainty. I asked her, “Is there hope?”
She said, “Of course there is.”
And I told her, “That’s all we need.”
We all need bold hope. Hope with a backbone. Hope that’s fortified.
We need to be Hopified.