God is good. Then why?

I have been struggling with my faith since we lost Rebecca. Actually, I don't think that last statement accurately captures what exactly the struggle is. I do not doubt God's existence. I do not doubt Christ's life and sacrifice. I do not doubt my salvation. I do not doubt God's goodness - at least, not in my mind. My heart is another matter. Because of the disconnect between my reason and the pain I feel, I cannot pray. And I am frustrated and angry at all of the platitudes, well-meaning though they may be, by the faithful. They offer no clarity, no electrifying of my faith. They make things more gray, more muddy, more confusing, more sad. They make God seem less God. Less good.


The pain is so deep that it shoots through every cell of my body and every synapse of my brain and every sacred corner of my soul. When someone tells me, "It was God's will," I want to scream. How could it be God's will that my little girl was torn from my body while I lie there in physical agony? I'm sorry, but that is a wholly inadequate explanation. I have heard things like, "Perhaps you have some unconfessed sin," and (this was to another woman suffering the same thing) "God told me to tell you that you need to forgive someone in your life before you will carry to term." WHAT??!! Or, "God spared you from having to raise a deformed child." How is it sparing to save me from what I would have gladly done and in place give me the worst nightmare I could imagine? Or, said by other people whose scares turn out to be just scares, "God was watching over us." Meaning, God was not watching over me and my husband and our child. Or, "It's all part of God's plan." Well, from my perspective, it's a pretty shitty plan.

My mind insists that God is good, merciful and just. What happened to me and my husband doesn't make sense to me, doesn't square with my sense of goodness, mercy and justice. Not when we see women on the subway punching and slapping their children, showering four letter words down on their innocent and trusting ears. Not when young girls sleep around, get knocked up and kill their children through abortion. Not when prostitutes with AIDS or crack addictions give birth to children who, if they are lucky enough to survive their diseases, will be whelmed in destitution for life. Are we such bad parents that we don't deserve a chance, that Rebecca didn't deserve a chance?

Why, why, why, why, why?


Why, when most couples I talk to get pregnant shortly after a miscarriage, are we still sitting here weeping with empty arms? Why, when I saved myself for marriage, am I subjected to tests for sexually tramsitted diseases that I could never have? Why must I give up either the privacy of my marriage bed or all thought of bearing my husband's child?


I will not accept any of the answers I have heard so far. They smack to me too much of pharisaism. I cannot reconcile a God of justice, mercy and goodness with these answers. And the only prayer I can pray until I receive an answer that makes sense to me is, "Why?"


God is good, I know, or all of existence is senseless Hell. God is my Father because I have asked him to be. I strive to be a good child. If He then refused me and refused help to me, He would not be good. So I will sit and await an answer from my Father.