Anger, Hope, and Healing
by Catherine Fata
It's not fair.
The day after her twentieth birthday, a friend of mine was in a car wreck. This beautiful, talented girl is currently in a coma, with a head injury and a fractured pelvis. As a person of faith, I believe in an all-knowing, all-powerful God. And it's hard not to hold it against Him when things go terribly wrong.
I think people often struggle with this, particularly after illness, or death, or tragedy; it is hard not to blame God. But it's not something that is often talked about. I mean, it's difficult to admit to being angry with the God who gave me my rather charmed life, my friends and family, my gifts and my talents.
But no life is without hardship. I'm 21 years old and I've already spent more time in doctors' offices than most people twice my age. And I try not to dwell on it, but let's be serious, it's hard not to.
So here's an admission. For quite some time, I thought that if I worked hard enough and was good and prayed a lot and went to Mass, then God would just lift these burdens off my shoulders and I could go ahead and be a "normal" twenty-something. I mean, He did it for the lepers.
So I prayed and I went to Mass and, lo and behold, nothing had changed. I'm not usually this naïve. In fact, I can be downright cynical. The "test" that I'd prepared for God turned out to be a test of my own - a test of my faith.
I went to Confession. Though this Sacrament is a sore subject for some Catholics, I personally love it. I leave feeling cleansed and refreshed and brought back to life. This time, I went in not quite knowing what to say.
"I'm angry," I announced, surprising even myself with this proclamation. I backed down a little bit. "Can I be angry at God?" I asked.
He asked why I was angry. I explained the never-ending battle between myself and my body, and my desire for health, and with it, for hope. It didn't seem like too much to ask for.
"That's your burden," he said. "It's your cross to bear."
I wasn't encouraged.
"Have you met God halfway?" he asked.
I didn't like where this was going.
"I've been dealing with this since I was nine," I explained. "I've done everything I possibly can and I am just so sick of it."
Exasperated, I was near tears at this point. I was just so frustrated and so angry - with this incompetent priest and his useless advice and with myself and my inability to deal and with God.
"Have you prayed for strength?" he asked me.
And then, I understood. I had been going about it all wrong. I had been praying for healing, not for help. God has graced me with so many blessings, and when He gave me a burden, I expected him to lift it from me.
That's not what I need. Sometimes, there are things we can do to improve a less-than-perfect life situation. Sometimes, there just aren't. And in those cases, like that of my friend, all we can do is pray for strength to deal with the hardships. My friend has thousands of people all over the country praying for her recovery. Today, she took her first breath sans ventilator.
God never promised life would be easy. Good things never are.
