From How to Pray When You’re Pissed at God
God, there is no poetry to my prayer. Poetry, like so much else, disappeared for me a long time ago. I have been either forgotten or deliberately forsaken by you, God, if you even exist.
I spent the first half of my life searching for you, O Lord, searching everywhere with endless study. Still, I am empty and without hope, angry, and finally numb, faithless, and forsaken.
Springsteen says, “In the end what we don’t surrender, well, the world just strips away.” God, I can only beg, plead, cry to you for so long. I have nothing left to strip away. So now I only search for anybody who God knows in order to ask God on my behalf, “Why?”
What is so wrong with me?
Whatever I may have done, I am sorry. If you tell me what I have done, O Lord, to be so cut off from you, I promise, God, to try to fix it; make it better, be better.
I will do whatever it takes if you will end the torture I have experienced since I was a child and saw a black shadow hovering behind me at all times. Even as a child I knew it was part of me, that part of me that keeps me from God.
As I have gotten older, I only feel the black shadow trailing me with my psychic eyes, but it’s always nearby. Of course, I suffer from depression, and the shadow man is moving closer and closer in on me. Doctors tell me that my stress comes from some past traumatic shock, but what can I have done at so young an age to bring this upon myself?
Who could be so horrible as to be utterly forsaken by a God who is supposed to be merciful?
Why would God inflict this upon me and leave me so alone to spend every day wishing for death or waking every morning of my entire life to face yet another miserable day?
And if God is the Creator, then am I not God’s creation too? Why don’t I deserve parental love or bonding? What sin could I have committed as a child to be punished with a life of poverty and loneliness and one traumatic event after another for fifty-two years?
Foreclosure, homelessness, hunger, sadness, grief: I have lived a cursed life of one loss after another. In fifty-two years I have never had more than three days when I have been content to be alive.
I carry the weariness of an eternity.
So please, God, hear my prayer: All I ask is that you just tell me why and when will this hell finally be over?
I go to church, but not to services. I go just to be alone just in case the day would ever come when something would be revealed to me.
I go to church to give private thanks when I am grateful for something, to beg when I am in more dire straits, to rest when I am weary.
So, God, while I am now mostly just numb, you can restore my soul by finally answering. . .
And when will finally be over?