So why didn’t God answer my prayer?

 This coming Monday marks the 30th anniversary of my father’s death from ALS. 

Exactly four weeks later, I got married. 

In the years between my dad’s death and now, I’ve kicked myself for not getting married sooner so my father could see me get married and I’ve also been angry at God for allowing my father to die at the time he died. 

Daddy was diagnosed at the end of 1991. I learned of his diagnosis on February 29, 1992. (I even still remember the drive home; I’d had to work that Saturday and I remember taking State Road 826 north in Dade County, Florida; I drove by the Office Depot sign in Hialeah, took my exit, and arrived at my parking lot.) 

The answering machine was flashing when I got home on that February day. It was my mother; I called her back, Daddy answered, saying, I haven’t heard from you in a while; and after a short chat, he handed the phone to Mom . . . who said six words that ended my life as I knew it up to that point. 

“Your father has Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

My reaction: “Oh, my God!” 

We talked for a while, and then after I hung up, I was on the phone for the next hour with my now-husband and my two best friends. 

My husband and I had been dating since 1987. In fact, he proposed on Valentine’s Day 1990; and I was shocked. It was something I had not expected, and after a long conversation, we decided it wasn’t a good time right now. And I believe we made the right decision, because I started developing the disease I have now, interstitial cystitis, and trying to plan a wedding in the middle of navigating my own health struggle would have been difficult. 

When husband proposed again in May of 1993, I accepted. And one of the first things I thought of was, please let my father live long enough to see me get married. 

I prayed for God to heal my father. I prayed for him to live long enough to see me get married. 

Neither of those things happened.  

My sister called me on September 11th and told me that they didn’t think it would be much longer. 

I called my husband after that, in minor hysteria. I called a couple of friends, and friends called me. 

But in the middle of that hysteria, I suddenly had a moment of clarity and said, “But God, if you’re going to take him, take him quickly and please let it be as peaceful as possible.”

That night, I heard the phone ring but didn’t answer it.  I was in bed and didn’t feel like getting the phone. 

Mom called the next morning and told me, “Your Daddy’s gone.” 

I immediately called my husband, who came and said, I’ll either drive you or take you to the airport. You’re not driving alone. (He drove me.)

One of the more surreal experiences of my life was accepting congratulations on my engagement with my father’s coffin around ten feet away. I mean, how do you celebrate what should be a happy time in your life when you are in such close proximity to your father’s body? 

Not only that, I made a phone call from my parents’ house regarding my bridesmaids’ dresses.  I think I may given information over the phone; I know I told them we’d had an emergency in the family. 

The funeral was on September 15. My husband and I left the next day and I immediately plunged back into planning a wedding. That wedding happened on October 9th. On October 11th, a month to the day after my father died, I boarded a plane to Cancun, Mexico, for my honeymoon. 

Since then, like I’ve said above, I’ve wondered why God said “no” to my prayer for “let my dad live long enough to see me get married.” 

In my nastier moments, I wonder if God was just mad and he wanted to punish me for some reason. But when I think about God as being kind, compassionate, and loving, I just can’t see him doing something like this just because he was in a bad mood. 

But if God is kind, compassionate, and loving, why did he let my father die when he did and how he did?

Then I’ve also told myself, you should have gotten married earlier. You should have pushed your husband into having a wedding earlier. 

There were two reasons I didn’t do that: 1. I didn’t think that “letting my dad see me get married” was a good enough reason to push my husband into marriage, and 2. I knew someone who’d been in a similar position - in her case, her mother had cancer and the girl got engaged not too long afterwards - and right after the honeymoon, the girl I knew left her husband. (I’ve since learned that there were other circumstances involving the couple’s relationship that probably led to their divorce.) But at the time, I thought, “So and so got married when her mother was so sick, and look what happened. Do I want to do the same thing?” 

After 30 years, I have no solid answers to, why did God allow all of this to happen the way it did and how it did? The only solid answer I really have is: I don’t know. 

The longer I am a Christian, the more I believe that the most humble and honest answer I can give to the question, why did God let this happen? is, “I don’t know.” I can come up with the Christian cliches of, “God needed another angel in heaven,” or, “It must have been God’s will,” or, “At least he’s in a better place.” I can give the broad answer of, trials come to increase our faith, to prove that our faith is genuine, etc. But the specific answer of “why this trial, why now?” I don’t know. 

I can tell you that from the time my father was diagnosed until he died, I never heard him complain or feel sorry for himself. He never talked about being sick with me. He had to leave teaching, and when I asked if he regretted not teaching, he said, “No. It was getting pretty bad.” (I didn’t blame him for feeling that way.)

The last time I visited, in August of 1993, I had written down the directions from my parents’ home in St. Petersburg to the hotel I was having everyone stay in. I had asked my father’s younger brother, my Uncle Jerry, to give me away if Daddy couldn’t. His answer:  “I’d be honored.” Uncle Jerry would end up driving my mother and sister to Miami.

Getting them down to Miami would be the easy part. 

Getting them to the hotel would be the hard part. 

It took me one full paragraph to get them through a particular portion of Freeway Hell known as the Golden Glades Interchange, where the following highways merge:  Interstate 95, State Road 826, State Road 9, Florida’s Turnpike, and NW 167th Street. So I was writing, this is the sign you will see, this is the lane you need to get in, this is the turn you will have to make.

When I showed the directions to my dad - who, by this time, had lost all power of speech - his eyes widened and he pulled the paper away from his face.

I burst out laughing. Because even though my father couldn’t talk, the expression on his face said everything. “All that?” 

The very last time I saw him, he was taking a nap and I was debating, do I go wake him up and tell him that I’m leaving to go back to Miami, or do I not disturb him? I’ll feel bad if I wake him up . . . but if I don’t go in there and it turns out I should have . . .

So I went into the bedroom, told Daddy good-bye, he gave me a hug, and when I walked out of the room, I said, “That’s the last time I’ll see my father alive.”

He would die in that bedroom about two weeks later. 

I am fortunate to have one of my last memories of my dad be a happy one. 

I am also fortunate to have his example of not complaining, although I hope he was at least able to talk to Mom. 

So why did God let my dad die when he did and how he did? 

I don’t know. 

The one conclusion I have come to in 30 years is that God is God, I am not, and I will not know until I ask God directly why he allowed things to happen the way they did. I jokingly refer to this as my “beef with God”. 

But God is still God. Even when a prayer does not get answered in the way you wanted it to be. 

God is God, even when your dad dies before your wedding, even when you feel cheated by the fact he never gave you away at your wedding; even when you realize he did not see his other daughter’s remarriage, even when you know that he has two grandchildren that he will never know . . . God is God. 

Right now, my answer to “why didn’t God answer my prayer?” is, “God is God, he is in charge. I am not.”

And I pray that I will remember that.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

The Scoop on Scrupe

Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary defines “scrupulosity” as “the quality or state of being scrupulous”; “scrupulous” being defined as “having moral integrity, acting in strict regard for what is considered right or proper, punctiliously exact, painstaking.”

I, along with several thousand others, can add one more part to that definition:

“A manifestation of obsessive-compulsive disorder concerning all things religious that makes the sufferer’s life a living hell.”

My name is Tina, and I am scrupulous. 

While I do hope I have moral integrity, and I can be punctiliously exact and painstaking, depending on the task (I’m a proofreader, and being scrupulous is important there), I also have OCD that often manifests itself into scrupulosity, and it does make my life a living hell at times. 

The International OCD Foundation (iocdf.org) defines scrupulosity as “a form of obsessive compulsive disorder involving religious or moral obsessions. Scrupulous individuals are overly concerned that something they thought or did might be a sin or other violation of religious or moral doctrine.” Symptoms includ excessive concerns about blasphemy, having committed a sin, behaving morally, purity, going to hell, death, a loss of impulse control. Compulsions can include: excessive trips to confession, repeatedly seeking reassurance from religious leader and loved ones, repeated cleanings and purifying rituals, acts of self-sacrifice, avoiding situations where they believe a religious or moral error could be especially likely or cause something i bad to happen. Mental compulsions could include excessive praying (sometimes with the emphasis on the prayer needed to be perfect), repeating passages from sacred scripture in one’s head; making pacts with God.

I can relate.

The OCD I deal with is called “pure O”, the obsessive, intrusive thoughts without the compulsive actions; or at least obvious compulsive actions. I believe I’ve had this since I was about 14, when swear words started dropping into my head. I’m not a fan of swearing; but having said that, I have let loose with certain swear words on occasion. I had my first real bout of depression at around 14 as well, just a very deep sadness that I was drowning in. 

The scrupulosity began during a church service, where, out of the blue, I took the name of the Lord in vain in my head. I was horrified. I mean, this was church, and one of the Ten Commandments is, thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain! So I quickly said a prayer:  “Dear God, I did this! I’m so sorry! Please forgive me and help me not to do it again. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.”

Can you guess what happened after I said the prayer?

If you guessed, “she thought the word again,” you’d be right. 

I’m about to turn 60, and the intrusive thoughts have been with me for around 45 years now. I struggle with shame around what I call “the thoughts”. It was not until a couple of decades ago that I did a Google search on “the thoughts” and I discovered not only the subject of pure O, I discovered the subject of scrupulosity. It took me longer to admit that, this is me, I think this is what I have. 

I’ve been in counseling off and on since I’ve been in my 20’s. Every time I go, I peel off another onion layer. The woman I’m currently seeing has expertise in OCD, and together we’ve been talking about thoughts. 

I grew up in a church environment where I absorbed that thinking about something was just as bad as doing it; so you’d better not be even thinking about sex, cuss words, or other sinful things. Sex was something you didn’t even think about until you were married, because thinking about having sex was a sin (the same as lust.) Hearing swear words and reading swear words were bad, so you needed to avoid scenes where there was a lot of swearing, do not read books with a lot of swearing (I even tried to mark out swear words in a book I was reading) and do not look at the screen when there is a sex scene in a movie and/or on TV!

In my opinion, all of that backfired on me. Because even though I could stay away from certain media, it didn’t stop the swearing and other thoughts from running around in my head. And in college, I don’t think it helped that the church I was part of emphasized doing everything “right”. It was camouflaged as “doing it by the Bible”, but it came off as, if you don’t do such and such, or if you don’t do such and such in this particular way, you’re going to hell. And you were asked about actions such as, did you have a quiet time (a period of prayer and Bible study) every day? What are you studying? How many people have you invited to church? Why didn’t you invite more people to church or Bible study? Where are your visitors? Then the ultimate question:  Do you love God? Well, if you did, you’d be doing this, this, and this. 

There’s also a group of opinion leaders in my group of believers that believe in something called “precision obedience,” meaning, God has exact requirements and he expects you to fulfill them exactly. (I looked up that phrase a while back and the subject that came up the most was . . . dog training.) 

So, when performance is emphasized, and nothing is ever good enough, that produces an environment ripe for scrupe to develop. Did I do enough? Did I do it right? What if I didn’t do it right? I’d better ask someone to tell me if I did it right or not. The Bible says such-and-such, but does it really mean that? I’d better look up the original languages, the context, and the original audiences. But what if I get those wrong, too? God is pure and holy and he demands that I do certain things in certain ways. Will he send me to hell if I get his requirements wrong? I remembered something that happened when I was 10 and I got angry about it? Have I not confessed that sin to God, because I’m still angry? Have I not really forgiven because I’m angry about what happened? God demands that you forgive or he won’t forgive you. So if you haven’t forgiven, you won’t be forgiven. Did I just sin? I’d better pray now to be forgiven because if I don’t say I’m sorry and ask to be forgiven, and I die in that sin, I’ll end up going to hell. I read swear words in a book. Did I pollute my mind? There was a bunch of cussing in a movie; but I really liked the movie. Did I sin? And oh my gosh, you just thought a big bunch of swear words. Hurry and ask for forgiveness! 

It is exhausting living like this. It’s why I say that scrupe is its own living hell. It keeps me in a state of constant anxiety of “getting it wrong and going to hell”. 

So what do you do? Is there any hope?

One recommendation is, “just let the thought be. A thought is a thought is a thought. It’s dwelling on that thought that may get you into trouble.” 

So sometimes I will go, “hmm, interesting,” when a bad thought comes up. Or I may think, “That sounds like a good idea. Let me try it in ten minutes.” When the ten minutes are up, I’ve usually forgotten about the thought or decided, I don’t want to act on the thought. I read an idea that I’ve put into practice: give your OCD a name you don’t like. So, with apologies to all the people with the following names:  My OCD is Hubert, my depression is Elmer, my anxiety is Agnes, and my inner bully/critic is Bertha. They have signed an oath in blood to make my life miserable. They especially like to come to church with me. So I’ll say stuff like, “You go sit on the end of the pew while I listen to the sermon.” This past Sunday I told them to go sit in the balcony. With certain thoughts, I’ll take the idea to a ridiculous extreme.  That appeals to my sense of humor and reduces the power of the thoughts over me. 

Scrupe is not easy. It is a mental disorder that, as I mentioned before, puts the sufferer through a living hell. My counselor has told me that OCD latches on to the worst fear you can have and multiplies it. I wish my OCD fed on pictures of puppies or kittens or beautiful nature scenes or funny movies. Instead, it decides to feed on fears of “getting Christianity wrong and being punished for it.” 

I do not know of a “cure” for OCD that will stop the obsessions. Some people do use medication. What I am using is cognitive behavioral therapy; a “rewiring” of my thoughts, so to speak. 

And I also remind myself that God is a good God, slow to anger, abounding in love and forgiveness. I think he understands OCD, depression, etc. I don’t understand why I have to deal with mental illness and I would like to be healed. God, in his sovereignty, has not chosen to do so right now. 

In the meantime, I and my fellow scrupes continue to navigate this condition, this attack on the brain, knowing that we will never do it “right” and “perfectly” and learning to be content with our imperfection.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Turn me inside out

Yesterday I had two incidents where the outside me did not match the inside me. 

Both of them involved a phone call and a computer. 

I noticed on my schedule yesterday that I was supposed to have a physical therapy appointment at 4 p.m. However, the PT place is very good about giving me a recorded reminder call two days in advance and I had not gotten a call.

So, I played it smart and called ahead. 

The answer I got was, no, you don't have an appointment scheduled for today. (Whew, saved myself a trip.)

Then I asked, can you check and see if I have anything else scheduled? 

This is where the outside me didn't match the inside me. 

The woman tried to check the schedule and her computer was running slow.  

VERY slow. 

In fact, it was running so slow that she said, "Can I call you back once I find the information?"

Outside, I was sympathetic. After all, it is not her fault that her system was acting up.

Inside, I was muttering to myself about "this shouldn't be taking this long!" 

Fortunately, the computer gave her the answer right before I hung up: no, I didn't have anything scheduled; yes, the PT had something tomorrow; did I want it?

I said yes, got scheduled, and hung up. (The appointment was today and I was worked hard.) 

Phone call #2 was concerning a medication that I needed.

Once again, slow computer struck again. 

And again, outside, I was sympathetic because again, it was not the woman's fault that her computer was not working properly.

Inside, I was going, "mutter mutter mutter", like Muttley from the old Wacky Races cartoon. 

After the medication situation was straightened out and I hung up, I thought, I can talk and act wonderfully on the outside. But I can complain, whine, and mutter on the inside. 

I want to get to the point where what I am saying and doing outside is a true reflection of who I am inside. Right now, I know I can talk the talk and act the act of a Christian. And while what I say and what I do as a Christian is important, I want the inside to match the outside. 

And that means, at least to me, not necessarily asking God to help me -- that I do what I can and ask God to give me the "boost" I need to put me "over the top", so to speak -- but asking God, please do in me what I can't do in and of myself. And that means an inside change, not just a change in what I say and what I do.

I'm reminded of a song we haven't sung in church in a while, "Inside Out".  Here's the chorus:

So turn me inside out
So that I can be
A reflection of the One who made me.
So the world can see
That it's Christ in me 
Lord turn me inside out
Turn me inside out.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

“Unspoken”

In the world of Christianese, the word “unspoken,” or the phrase, “I have an unspoken,” is often listed. 

If you have an “unspoken”, it means that you have a prayer request that you’d rather not be made public. 

A July, 2022 article on theunion.com titled “Chaplain’s Satirical List of Troublesome Faith Words” defines “unspoken prayer request” as “when someone requests prayer for themselves but won’t fess up to the thing they did. Or a sly prayer for a sinner who doesn’t know they’re being prayed for.”

Okay, that could be true, and probably why “unspoken” is considered Christianese by many.

I’m not a fan of Christianese — in fact, some Christianese makes me clench my teeth — but there’s a flip side to the word “unspoken” when it comes to prayer requests.

It’s also a way of saying, “Someone I know needs prayers, but the subject needs to remain private.” 

I do believe in prayer. I believe in praying for people. But sometimes people may be too embarrassed to share a prayer request. Or it is about a subject that the person wants to keep private or that needs to be kept private.

So I’m one of those who will say, “A friend of mine has an unspoken prayer request.” 

Usually, I’ll say it like that because the person has said, “You can ask for prayers but I’d rather keep the subject private.” 

So I’ll honor the person’s request. 

God knows what the person needs, and often, a “spoken” is not necessary. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Forged in cold water

The cold water lapped at Martha Elliot’s chest as she held her three-year-old daughter on her shoulder.

Martha, her daughter, and two other relatives were trapped in a truck, victims of a May, 1979 Texas flash flood.

 

The flood had already claimed the lives of Martha’s husband and her two sons, swept away when they tried to pull another truck, the truck the husband and boys were riding in, out of the water. 

 

Martha may have been in shock, scared, maybe unable to process what had just happened to her, but she was determined that her daughter would survive.  No matter how tired her arms grew, she was going to hold that child above water. 

 

It was nighttime, the time when scary thoughts love to appear and torment the thinker. Who knows what Martha was thinking as the truck filled with water? Am I going to die, Lord? My boys are gone. My husband is gone. Will I join them? 

 

But my daughter will survive.

 

The morning came, and rescuers also came for Martha, her daughter, and the two other relatives.

 

When the shock of the flood and the deaths of her husband and sons receded, Martha knew that it was she and her daughter now, on their own. 

 

So she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, mustered all the faith she had (and probably some she didn’t have) and moved to Abilene, Texas to start her life over. 

 

Her first step was to enroll in Abilene Christian University.  Her goal: to eventually have a degree that would help her to raise her daughter. People rallied around her, and six years later, she graduated with a degree in home economics and early childhood education.

 

She eventually started teaching kindergarten, and was surprised on the first day of school to have a five-year-old call her a profane word. Had that been me, I might have quit.

 

Not Martha.

For 19 years, she poured herself into her students, and not only did her influence affect them, it affected the teachers around her.  Perhaps they were attracted to an inner strength that Martha may not have realized she had. 

 

Seventeen years after that horrible year of 1979, the daughter Martha held above water level in the truck, her daughter Debbie, got married and moved to Atlanta. While Martha was happy for her daughter and welcomed a son-in-law, Debbie’s marriage meant that Martha would be living alone for the first time in her life.  

 

She came to Atlanta to care for Debbie while Debbie was on bed rest during her pregnancy with twins. And after the twins were born, Martha found every reason to visit Atlanta as often as she could. 

 

Martha retired from teaching in 2011. The next year, she had a heart attack, and after rehab, she came to Atlanta to live with Debbie and her family. They welcomed her, arms open. So did their church. 

Family, by blood, marriage, and church, meant a great deal to Martha. She was a familiar presence at ladies’ Bible study class on Tuesdays and later, in the seniors’ Bible study classes on Sunday and Wednesday mornings. She was the one who kept up on the prayer list for her small group. She made sure that birthday and get well cards were sent out from the senior class to those who needed them. And for a time, she helped teach a Sunday School class full of kids from eight to ten years old. 

Martha Elliot died of cancer on January 8^th. Her funeral was yesterday. I was not able to attend but did watch the livestream. Her daughter Debbie posted a long tribute to her mother on Facebook. She wrote, “Martha did not consider herself to be a strong person. Her life proved otherwise. When Debbie mentioned at one point how strong and independent Martha was, she said, ‘No, I am not. I just did what I had to do. I didn’t have a choice.’”

I beg to differ. I think Martha did have a choice. She could have chosen, after the death of her husband and two sons, to figuratively curl up in a ball and live the rest of her life in bitterness and self-pity, angry about what had been taken from her so suddenly. 

 

She could have communicated that attitude to her daughter. 

 

But she drew on a deep faith in God, believed in Him, and then set about doing what she had to do.

 

A speaker at Martha’s funeral mentioned her “empathy”. Upon hearing that, my mind flashed back several years to when we had an auto accident.  While no one was hurt, our car was totaled. It was Debbie’s family that said, we have an extra car. Please use it. I believe that car belonged to Martha. 

After hearing about Martha’s empathy yesterday, I knew where Debbie had gotten her own empathy from. 

 

That daughter, held above chest-high cold water, grew to be a wonderful woman with faith of her own and creativity with her twins and her younger son. 

 

I did not know until after Martha died that she had lost her husband and sons in such a tragic way. Being the researcher I am, I was able to find a short article about the flood and Martha’s loss of her husband and sons.

 

Usually, the word “forge” is associated with heat and metal, as in forging a suit of armor or forging horseshoes. 

 

In thinking about Martha’s life, and her faith, I believe that that faith was forged by cold water on a horrible night that she never forgot. Cold water may have taken her husband and sons, but it did not take her daughter and it did not take her faith. 

Instead, it acted like a fire in a forge, shaping her into the strong, empathetic, faithful and kind woman she was and that we remember. 

She will be missed, missed by her blood family, her family by marriage, and her church family. 

And she will be remembered as a woman who, with her faith in God, overcame a nightmarish loss and left us an example of faith forged, not by fire, but by cold water.

 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.