Broken Promises

Chapter 11 - Church Dedication

 October 1999

I was not able to attend church after you were born. I could not go without you, or maybe it is more accurate to say that I would not go without you. I was a pretty regular attender because that is how I was raised. I was a Christian, but I was not a "you must go," person. Family came first. Going without you would have been like going to church but leaving my soul at home. It would have been blasphemous. I was not emotionally able to walk through those doors without you. My prayer and worship time happened every single day in the hospitals and at home. I would fall asleep most nights praying for you and wake up with the taste of the words still in my mouth. God is a dad. He would understand.

What I looked forward to before you were born was carrying you inside and holding you in church. I wanted everyone to see my heart. They should see how happy I was. I needed to share this moment with them. This was to be our ritual. I would be repeating what my father did with me. He brought me to church, and I proudly sat beside the man who to me represented God. I would try to keep my fidgety body still and quiet as I sat beside him. Looking back, I miss those times. As a child, my parents, especially my father, were as close an understanding of God as I could process. He loved, fed, protected, taught, and disciplined me. There was no one more powerful than my dad, and while he was a gentle man, I knew that he would destroy anything or anyone who threatened his children. His love was never in question. I have only seen him cry a few times in my life, most of those tears were shed over you.

As a kid, I remember thinking that if God were anything like my daddy, he was pretty amazing. When Sunday school teachers told me that God loved me more than my dad, I found that hard to believe. No one except maybe my mother loved me that much. When I became a father, it was even harder to believe. I would break the foundations of the universe and sacrifice every soul on Earth for you.

When I then tried to rationalize how God could love you more than I did and also allow you to break so completely, I no longer understood God. This was not the God I knew and loved. He was a God who betrayed those who loved and worshipped him.

The only thought I could process was that God was using you as an example. He was going to show people his ability to perform miracles. So many had met you and said that you would never be okay. It felt like the stage was set for Him to show His power. I was not delusional. I was a dad who believed in the power of God even if I did not know why or how it would happen. I just could not process that God would let my little girl die after He knew you were the only gift I ever wanted from Him. My God was not evil.

Planning to take you to church the first time was highly coordinated. Both families were there. The church was ready. Some in the church who had medical training were on alert in case something went wrong. It was the most beautiful church family experience imaginable. Nothing was physically different about the structure. It was the people, their love, and the moment. When the time came that I was able to bring you to church for your dedication, I was not sure what to expect. I was a broken man with a broken soul carrying a broken child begging a now broken God to show me that He was still worth loving. Everything inside me was on a razor's edge. I felt like I was just a breath away, but from what I was not sure.

The church had a beautiful service for to you. It was yours. These people loved you. They had prayed for you since the day you were born. You mattered to them. I never got to thank them for their love and prayers, but I hope they knew it. They held a prayer service, singing "You Are My Sunshine." Everyone surrounded you, praying for your healing. It was a church of maybe one hundred. All raising their prayers for you, each believing as I did that they would witness something important. To this day, I still hate that song. Once beautiful, it now brings me both tears and anger. It reminds me of you and of broken promises. It reminds me of betrayal.

I honestly believed I would be carrying you home, healed. I would tell the world what miracles my God was capable of doing. I was not sure if you would be healed immediately or if I would witness a gradual healing. In my head, I likened it to the Big Bang. Something unexplainable happens to start a process that evolves into something beautiful. The exact process was not what was important. If God was going to heal you slowly, I accepted that. I remember as people were walking back to their pews, I overheard an elderly church goer who said, "I really thought that would work." I felt connected to that man and what he said. His honesty helped me feel that maybe I was not alone in my thoughts. There is probably a theological sermon about his words and reality, but I really couldn't care less to hear it. All I cared to know was why my baby girl was still hurting. If they could not answer why, they had no words I wanted to hear. When the minister embraced me afterwards, joining me in tears, he did not try to placate with unknown answers.

What had I done in life that was so bad that God had to leave you broken and hurting? I have always thought of myself as a good man. Not perfect, but not bad. Trying to do my best. Why could He have not broken me instead? Kill me, send me to hell, I did not care, but leave my little girl alone. I carried you home, still broken, me more lost than ever.

Walking out the church door that day was the day I felt my belief in God to be the most uncertain. He broke my trust. God had failed me. Worse, He failed, you, my daughter. My God was no longer a God I trusted. My God had become a liar.