My son was a few weeks old when I lost faith in God’s goodness.
It wasn’t a conscious decision. The change was quiet, piercing, and painful. It happened in the darkness as my body stitched itself back together and new fears filled my mind like dirty laundry shoved too tightly into a basket.
I fought it at first, in the wee hours of the night, days after we brought him home. Fear would grip my heart and I’d turn to the bassinet, wondering if he was still breathing, wondering if I would be allowed to love him for years to come or if he’d quietly leave me in his sleep.
I love him more than you do, God whispered to my soul. Trusting the press of God on my heart, I turned over in bed and went back to sleep without checking on him.
But as the days melted into weeks, I found it harder to believe that voice. How could anyone love my baby more than me? The thought that anyone by myself could keep him safe was unfathomable.
While other moms drew closer to God after the birth of their babies, seeing His love in a new light, I had the opposite revelation. I found a dangerous hole I couldn’t keep myself from falling into. Rather than see God as a loving parent, I saw him as a force that might choose to rip my baby from my arms. What made me or my baby or my family special, to be cared for by the God of the universe?
And so, I unconsciously decided I could no longer trust God. Because if that baby or that family met with tragedy, what was to stop the same thing from happening to me? How could I trust that His love was enough to keep us safe?
Like I did when I struggled with anorexia, I took hold of control and tied myself inside of it, carried it like chains, and locked myself in its prison, thinking it was the only thing that could keep us safe, and mourning my loss of trust in the God that had carried me this far.
My son is three months old when I cry out to God in the shower. I feel like I’m drowning under the weight of anxiety. I’m trying to hold it all together with my bare hands, but I’m splintering around myself, finding jagged edges. When the anxiety and stress and sleeplessness shatter my vision, I take a trip to the ER thinking I might have a stroke but find it was an aura migraine. So much stress.
“God, why can’t I trust you?” I ask in the shower, desperately wanting to trust Him and unable to figure out why I can’t give Him, my family, my control–me.
He speaks to my soul again. You don’t trust me because of what happened with your spiritual mentor.
I feel like someone has punched me. I don’t talk about that because I’ve never processed that.
Over the years I found a home in different churches during different seasons (and locations) of my life.
The first church is where I was raised and learned about the foundations of Christianity.
The second church is where my husband and I went when we dated, where we were married, and where I learned about the love of God in bold ways.
The third church taught me how the church can be a safe and welcoming place for all people in all walks of life.
The shower water beats on me as I remember how the pastor at my second church committed suicide almost two years before.
I remember learning the news and trying to process it, but having nobody to do so with. Instead, I shoved the nagging soul questions deep inside and carried on with life, never peeling back the layers or trying to figure out why my soul hurt after this death.
On this night, in the shower, I feel realization like a fist around my soul.
I’m struggling to trust God now when my son is a few months old because, deep down, I wonder how someone who taught me so much about the love of God could fail to believe in that love for themselves. If they couldn’t believe it, should I? I know faith happens between me and God, not between me and a person who taught me about God, but still, this question of trust feels personal–weighty.
Standing in the shower, I realize I want to trust God. I desperately want to, but I don’t know how. I need to re-learn this and it’s going to take a while.
My son is around five months old when I start having conversations with God in the dark. My mind is a scary place. I’ve adopted OCD rituals to keep myself and my son safe. My poor husband is trying not to go crazy as I unplug appliances at night to keep them from burning down the house, check closets to make sure there are no murderers, and do other postpartum anxiety OCD things to keep my mind at ease.
I’ve been writing about where faith and anxiety and motherhood meet, trying to find hope in the women who walked before me in scripture. Jochebed and Hannah and the Shunammite Woman and Mary. Their stories of faith give me hope, but I’m still trying to live it.
I’m laying in bed, trying to sleep, struggling with insomnia when I ask God. “Hey, can you please co-parent with me? I’m trying to do this and I want you to help.”
I feel a steady gentle peace fill me.
My son was four or five months old when I first noticed him do a strange thing. I was lifting him out of his front carrier and as I stretched my arms high, I accidentally bumped his head against the arch in the ceiling.
He wailed and screamed, but the only comfort he wanted was from me, the person who hurt him.
This happened earlier today, too. He was playing with something he shouldn’t and I reprimanded him. His lip turned downward and his eyes welled, and all he wanted was me.
This has struck me since the beginning. Why would he want me when I am the one who (accidentally) hurt him, or reprimanded him?
This is the opposite of how we treat God. When we are hurt and we believe it’s God’s fault, we run away. I’ve seen this happen over and over in the church. The modern term is deconstruction. When something doesn’t add up or we are hurt by the church (or people in the church), rather than run to God for answers, for love, for comfort, we run away.
As I muddled through figuring out how to trust God, how to let go of control, I kept coming back to this. This juxtaposition of running to the (accidental or perceived) offender with open arms, asking for comfort. I knew that’s how I should see God. I knew I should respond to Him with open arms, asking him to take my fear and love me away from this place of pain and uncertainty, because He loves me and wouldn’t hurt me. But this kind of trust is harder than it sounds. It grieves me to admit this, but it’s the honest, messy truth and I think God loves that too.
My son is one and a half years old when I go to a women’s conference.
Over the past year, I have been trudging through my feelings about God and how to trust Him. I’ve felt His peace, his acceptance, and His love as he speaks to me through songs, comforts me in the dark anxiety-filled nights, and spoken words to my heart.
The postpartum period is waning. I haven’t been breastfeeding as much, and I’ve been filling my time with more of Him through Bible studies and worship music. All things that help me feel closer, more connected, and seen. Everything is adding up to a fresh faith which I am grateful for, but I’m still working on it.
The speaker tells the story of the woman with the issue of blood who touches Jesus’ cloak, which has always been one of my favorites, but I can’t tell you why. As she reads the story from scripture, something pings inside of me, but I can’t wrap my soul around it.
What is this? What am I missing? What is God trying to show me?
A few weeks later, I am sitting at the kitchen table for breakfast. My son is in his high chair. We are eating cottage cheese and drinking morning smoothies. Reading a Bible with tender rippable pages is difficult with a toddler, so I listen to the Bible most mornings.
The story of the woman with the issue of blood plays in the book of Luke and one word catches my attention in verse 48 after the woman has been healed. Jesus says to her,
“Daughter,” he said to her, “your faith has saved you. Go in peace.”
The word tears from the pages of the Bible, through centuries, and slices through my skin like a knife to tattoo the word on my soul.
Daughter.
I still can’t fathom what this means for me. How is this the answer? But somehow, it feels like another piece of the puzzle. Little encounters, whispers of peace, and now this have been healing me. I’m not as scared. I’m humbling myself to God’s direction, giving Him the control back.
I ponder this word.
Daughter.
And find something beautiful.
Jesus only uses the word daughter three times in scripture. It’s in three of the Gospels, and each occurrence refers to the same woman. The woman with the issue of blood. This woman was desperate. She’d tried everything to fix her situation herself. She’d tried doctors. She’d suffered alone for twelve years. Touching Jesus was risky. It would make Him unclean according to Jewish law.
But when she touches Him, she is healed, and rather than move along or reprimand her, Jesus makes it a point to notice her, to speak to her.
To call her daughter.
This is a beautiful story, but it touched me more deeply when I thought of my son.
It’s easy to say, “God is our Father,” but it’s entirely different for us to feel the presence of God call us “daughter.” If you’re a mama or have felt the love of a mama, you know the significance of this parental shift. I am a mother, but being a daughter is different.
I imagine what I would say to my son if he lived in fear of me, unable to trust me, and unwilling to cling to me.
I’d say:
Dear Son,
My heart breaks to know you are afraid of me, that you don’t trust me. If you understood the way I love you, the lengths I would go to keep you safe, to show you I love you, you’d not doubt me. You are the most special thing in my life. If you trust me, I’ll prove to you again and again that I love you. This love isn’t like other love. It’s desperate, wild, and passionate. I’m so in love with you. Please don’t doubt my love for you. I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. You are my baby boy and I love you with my life.
As a daughter of God, I can imagine Him saying something similar, assuring me of His love. In Isaiah 43 God says,
“Don’t be afraid, I’ve redeemed you.
I’ve called your name. You’re mine.
When you’re in over your head, I’ll be there with you.
When you’re in rough waters, you will not go down.
When you’re between a rock and a hard place,
it won’t be a dead end—
Because I am God, your personal God,
The Holy of Israel, your Savior.
I paid a huge price for you:
all of Egypt, with rich Cush and Seba thrown in!
That’s how much you mean to me!
That’s how much I love you!
I’d sell off the whole world to get you back,
trade the creation just for you.
“So don’t be afraid: I’m with you.
I’ll round up all your scattered children,
pull them in from east and west.
I’ll send orders north and south:
‘Send them back.
Return my sons from distant lands,
my daughters from faraway places.
I want them back, every last one who bears my name,
every man, woman, and child
Whom I created for my glory,
yes, personally formed and made each one.’”
(The Message)
I’m sitting outside as I write this, dappled sunshine on the green lawn. I’m not completely healed yet. I’m still working on having faith like a child, on giving up my control, on trusting God no matter what. But after almost nineteen months of working on trusting God more, I’m happy with how far I’ve come, and how far He has carried me and loved me in the darkness, in the messiness, in the questions. I am humbled that He calls me daughter, and I am trying to see Him as a Father who loves me more than I can fathom. More than it’s possible to love my son. I want to submerge in that thought. In that love. In that acceptance. Because in a small way I understand it. Because of my son.
I hope you know He sees you. That He is good. And that you are his daughter.
Much love,
Shelbie
Note: My spiritual struggles were tightly woven into my struggles with postpartum anxiety and depression. On top of working on my relationship with God, I worked with a natural doctor to get the vitamins and supplements to support my body, and I also got into counseling. If you are struggling with a postpartum mood disorder I suggest finding a team of professionals to walk alongside you along with your close friends and mentors.
Here are some songs that have given me hope regarding anxiety and trusting God.
And here is a Bible study that encouraged me.