I was supposed to be pregnant. After years of waiting, I’d carried a baby just nine weeks before a miscarriage upended everything I ever thought I believed about the way God works. We deserve to be parents! I would yell at the sky. My husband and I were as devoted to one another as we were to God. God had no right to take my baby from me. He owed me big time.
If this was a test, I was failing.
That year I was bitter, angry, weepy, uncertain. Every time I entered God’s presence, I did not find peace or hope or patience. Instead, I came face to face with my own biting disappointment, and the God who had let me down.