Grief and God
It’s two o’clock in the morning.
I woke up in a panic from a haunting dream , clothes drenched, tears flowing, disoriented. It’s been months since I’ve fallen asleep before 6 a.m. Months since I’ve dreamed at all.
Before I woke up, I saw myself praying.
I wasn’t praying for healing or peace. I was telling God that I was mad at Him and just so angry at him. I heard that I was allowed to talk to God like that. That I could tell Him I was angry. That it was okay if that was all I had to say.
I haven’t talked to God since the day my baby died.
I’ve had nothing to say.
For months, I prayed for my baby. Day after day, I sat in that NICU room calling out God’s name. The day I walked out of that room for the last time was the day I became silent.
I’ve tried to pray since then. But every time I start, my eyes fill with tears and I stop. I don’t want to feel more pain than I already do, and when I try to pray, the pain and sadness becomes unbearable — more than I can ever describe.
When I woke from the dream, I knew it meant something. I sat up and tried to pray again, but all I could say was that I wasn’t ready yet.
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And still, I feel humbled. Even in my silence, I feel heard.
God knows I am angry with Him. He knows the pain I carry every second of every day, and He doesn’t run from me the way humans often do when they’re confronted with blame. Instead, He stays. He tells me He will remain by my side even if I yell at Him, even if I place my anger on Him.
This dream was like no other. It felt as though I was being pulled in two directions.
After the disorientation faded, I saw it clearly. The devil was pulling me toward him, forcing me to relive the worst nightmare of my life, my son dying in my arms. I saw a shadow running through my house, trying to reach me. I saw myself shaking, trying to call my boyfriend, trying to speak — but I had no voice. I tried to tell him to come home, that something bad was happening, but nothing came out.
Then everything shifted.
Jesus stepped in, and I got my voice back. He told me I could be angry. That I was allowed to yell at Him. That I could tell Him exactly how I felt. And in that moment, the shadow disappeared. The vision of my son dying was gone. Then I woke up.
I believe I witnessed the devil using my grief and anger to pull me toward him. And I believe I witnessed Jesus coming to my rescue because I am too weak to do it myself.
The devil wants to use my anger to separate me from Jesus.
And Jesus is telling me that my anger is welcome.
I’m not ready to forgive. I’m not ready to heal.
But for the first time in months, I know I’m not walking this part alone.
