God, Where are You? by Adriana Vaughn
Negative. Could I accept never having a positive pregnancy test? I’d never know the joy of seeing two lines. No baby announcements. I stood in my bathroom leaning against the blue wall. My shoulders trembled, and I pursed my lips to muffle the cries. God, where are you? Though all treatments ceased, my body showed unexpected symptoms, so I took a test. After grabbing a hand towel to wipe my face, I stumbled downstairs to the kitchen and found my husband sipping coffee from his soup cup. Peering at me, he set the mug down on the counter and enveloped me in a strong embrace. Resting his chin on my head, he held me, “It’s over. It’ll be okay.” The treatment, the side effects, managing the timing and all the negative tests had drained us of hope. Having yearned to adopt since my college days, now we could start the process by December.
After breakfast, I ran upstairs to get dressed. Why did I have to go through this? Could we not have just adopted from the beginning? Why did we waste these past eighteen months? Why didn’t you lead us away from pursuing all those treatments? Did you lead us astray? I stomped downstairs, grabbed my keys, and got into my car. The mental barrage of questions boomeranged in my mind. Why God why? Why did I have to endure this horrific season instead of just adopting in the beginning? A voice on the radio halted my thoughts, “‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord. Isaiah 55:8” (New International Version.) What impeccable timing I thought to myself. I pulled into a parking spot at the grocery store. Taking a deep breath with watery eyes, I trust you when I don’t understand. The heaviness of the unknown lightened, and peace pervaded my soul.
Three months later in early January, I woke to see the shadow of headlights of a passing car. Lying in bed next to my husband listening to his deep breathing, the tingling in my foot returned. Just today these odd symptoms moved to my foot. I had thought it was carpal tunnel, but now feared the worst, an incurable disease. Why God? Why now? We’re on the brink of moving forward with adoption. Will our plans fall through because of this unknown sickness? Will it hinder me from living a normal life? God, why did you let this happen to me now? Tears rolled down my face to my pillow. The song we’d sung that morning in church interrupted my thoughts. I began to mouth the words. The tunnel that had formed around my future broke open. The fear strangling me like a noose loosened. In bed surrounded by sounds of sleep, I worshipped.
My hands tingled, and pain shot up my leg to my knee, but still, I worshipped.
No miracle came, yet my perspective shifted. Hope in God rose in my heart while thoughts of pending doom faded.
At the start of March, I stood over my aunt in the hospital. Growing up I’d admired her beauty, humor, generosity, and faith. Our extended family had been taking turns caring for her for almost a month, so I hadn’t seen her in a week.
Scrunching my nose at the stench of cleaning chemicals, I entered my aunt’s room. During our last visit, she and I prayed together. Today was different. What had happened? I turned away from my aunt to go out to the nurse’s desk.
“Is my aunt sedated?”
Looking up from the computer, the nurse said, “No. She’s been like this since she moved down here yesterday.”
Tears gushed, and my voice cracked, “She wasn’t like this last time I visited.” I returned to her room, dropped my purse in the chair, and neared my aunt. I reached out a hand to stroke her hair. I whispered to her, “We love you. You’re not alone. We’re with you.”
Hours later leaving the hospital, I rushed to the van. Once inside clenching my teeth while trying to catch my breath, I prayed. Where are you? Don’t you see what’s happening? If you aren’t going to miraculously heal her, please take her home soon. Please, please don’t let her suffer anymore. My aunt passed away two days later.
By April my interest in my favorite activities dwindled as I consoled myself with daily helpings of ice cream. The disappointment of infertility had overwhelmed me like waves. I woke up exhausted even after eight hours of sleep. Then the winds of sickness knocked me down. My motivation to exercise disappeared. Losing my aunt engulfed me with grief. By that time, not a single book garnered my attention to read from start to finish. As I complained to God about my hardships, I envisioned myself helpless with a slumbering Jesus, but He roused and stilled the storm of doubt.
One May morning I poured out my heart to God, Why did I have to go through all this? Why did you let so much happen to me in such a short time? Turning to my next reading, Psalm 124. I didn’t have to read past verse two to understand God’s response. “If the Lord had not been on our side—let Israel say—if the Lord had not been on our side when…” (New International Version). Reading those lines over and over, my soul grasped the truth.
All those months I’d been demanding that God reveal himself by answering my prayers in the manner and timing I expected. When He didn’t do it my way, I assumed He’d left the room. In truth, He’d been with me all along. No disease devoured my body, just medicinal side effects. The adoption process continued. My aunt’s suffering ended. Yet, I had minimized those moments when He’d revealed Himself in whispers and providential ways. The Lord leaned in during that last pregnancy test and each one before that. He strolled beside me when I walked with my friend, and my foot began tingling. God hovered over the room during my last visit with my aunt as I traced her eyebrows while I wept over her condition. When I look back at that time, I now wonder what if God had not been on my side.
Adriana Vaughn lives in Houston with her husband and beagle. When she’s not rooting for the Astros, you’ll find her strolling the aisles of a thrift shop. Adriana devours mysteries, savors literary nonfiction, and writes stories about her walk with God. She’s published in the Guideposts’ compilation God’s Constant Presence: Strengthened by His Touch.