Courage Under Fire

 

I am not courageous. Or brave. Or doing great. You only think that because you haven’t heard me screaming at God at the top of my voice when I’m here alone,

“Why!!!”

It seems to me that courageous people don’t scream at the Almighty. They bow their humble heads and submit to the “will of God” when tragedies happen. They don’t demand answers and call Him names like The God I’m Not Talking To. They praise the Lord and thank Him for the forty-four wonderful years they had together and gush about how happy they are to know their husband isn’t suffering anymore and is happy now in the arms of Jesus.

That’s what I’ve been told. To tell you the truth, though, I’m not buying it. I don’t think they’re being honest.

So, no, I don’t feel courageous. I’m fragile and raw and numb, but I’m not courageous. I don’t feel brave either. I’m shellshocked and weary and sleep deprived and dehydrated, but definitely not brave. It’s just that I have no choice. I’m here. I’m alive. And I feel alone. I hurt like hell and, with every cell in my being, I miss Rob every second of every hour of every day. But that’s not courage. Or bravery. Or even remarkable.

That’s just the crappy hand I got dealt.

Doesn’t sound very spiritual, does it? It doesn’t to me either. It does sound honest, though. Authentic. And it probably makes people uncomfortable. What do you do with a woman who sits at your bank counter crying because she has to remove her husband’s name from their joint checking account? And when she bursts into tears in a department store because she glanced at his photo on her phone, should you ask her if she’s okay or pretend you didn’t notice? If her tears splash all over the bananas in the grocery store because she realizes she’ll never buy them again for her dead husband, should you bring it to the attention of the store manager? After all, that’s not very covid-friendly of her. “Clean up in Produce!” the loudspeaker squawks.

So, let’s recap. I’m not courageous or brave. I’m not living my best spiritual life right now. And I’m dripping snot in literally every public place I go in a dismal effort to pick up the shattered pieces of my life and get back to the business of living. At this point, I don’t think I’m succeeding at much of anything—except crying.

I am honest, though. And I ask honest questions. I always have. Whether I politely question God like the good Southern-style woman I am or scream “Why?!” like a banshee in the jungle, throwing it out there now is as straightforward as the day eight years ago when I found out I had cancer and stood alone in the backyard, staring up at the sky, daring to ask the Creator of the universe, “Where are You?”

I felt pretty alone that day, too, and Rob was standing right behind me.

I can ask God anything I want to ask Him. He can handle it. I know a few people who can’t, but God seems up to the challenge. He’s a fan of honesty. He knows what I’m thinking anyway, so why shouldn’t I ask? I want to know why He didn’t heal my darling’s lungs when hundreds of people prayed thousands of prayers asking Him to. He healed lots of other people, many of whom never even saw a doctor when they caught the virus. He healed me in the same hospital where Rob lost his life. We had the same diagnosis on the same day. Why did He leave me here alone asking questions Rob would never have asked if the tables had been turned?

I think He got our rooms mixed up.

I want to know why my grandchildren lost their Chief. Why my son didn’t get the chance to tell his father goodbye in person when he hadn’t seen him for nearly two years because of covid. Tell me why my daughter had to lose the father she adores, holding his hand for nearly twenty-four hours until he took his last breath? And our friends who’ve wept over the loss of a man who was like a brother to some and a hero to many. Why is that, God?

I should be clear here, since some people never question the way life turns out and others have all the answers so they never need to ask questions. I don’t believe in pat answers. That hasn’t stopped people from offering them, but their consolation cards wind up in my circular file when they do. Pat answers are easy when it isn’t the love of your life who has suddenly died. Religious explanations are even worse. They blame God but make Him look heroic while they do it. It makes me wonder if those people even know God.

I know God is weeping with me. That He is saving my tears in a bottle. I don’t know what He plans to do with them, but somehow the image of Him caring that much is comforting. I know He carries me when I don’t have the emotional strength to even get out of bed, which has been happening a lot for the last five weeks. There’s more I know about God, but so far I haven’t forgiven Him enough to give Him credit for those things. I also know He won’t hold that against me even though I’m holding the loss of my darling against Him.

Oh, I know, some of you are so shocked your socks have flown off. I’ve ruined the good Christian perception you had of me. Good. If we can’t ask God hard questions in hard times without worrying about the way we package it, then He’s not the God we thought He was. Don’t worry. If lightning strikes from heaven in the next ten minutes because I just wrote that, you won’t get hit by Eula shrapnel. You’re a safe distance away, reading my last words and wondering where I found the courage to shake my finger in the face of God and question His motives.

I got it from Him. The Author and the Finisher of my faith. God’s not afraid of my honesty. His favorite people were never Pharisees, remember? He’s always loved a desperate heart. He’s the One Who asked Adam and Eve the same thing I asked Him in my backyard eight years ago and at Rob’s bedside five weeks ago,

“Where are you?”

It takes courage to be honest. Maybe I’m braver than I think.