“I Was Done with God, But He Wasn’t Done with Me”
I didn’t want to pray anymore.
It wasn’t that I was tired, it was deeper than that. I felt betrayed. Like I had been sold a version of God that promised healing, protection, answers, and presence, but in the darkest moments of my life, what I got was silence.
I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, heart heavy, faith cracked open. I whispered words I never thought I would say out loud: “God, I don’t trust You anymore.”
I had reached the end of my rope, not because I stopped believing God exists, but because I didn’t know how to reconcile His goodness with my pain. How could I still call Him “Father” when I felt like an orphan?
You see, I grew up being told that if I pray, God will answer. That if I fast, He will break through. That if I give, He will bless me. I did all of that. I believed. I waited. I hoped. And still, the door didn’t open. The healing didn’t come. The silence stretched longer than my strength could hold.
And I started wondering: Was I the problem? Or worse… Was God ignoring me on purpose?
I found myself angry — not just at life, but at Him. I accused Him. I blamed Him. I distanced myself. I stopped reading the Bible because every verse felt like a lie, I couldn’t make sense of anymore.
But here’s what surprised me: He didn’t leave.
I walked away, but He didn’t walk back.
I cursed in my heart, but He kept whispering in mercy.
I slammed the door, and yet He remained outside, knocking… gently.
Like in Psalm 34:18 — “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
That verse didn’t mean much to me until I found myself exactly there, crushed, brokenhearted, barely breathing under the weight of disappointment. And yet, in my stillness, when I had no words left to pray, I felt the soft presence of a God who wasn’t offended by my honesty.
Job said in Job 13:15, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” But I didn’t have Job’s strength. I didn’t want to trust a God who slays. I wanted to trust a God who saves.
But slowly, painfully, I started learning that trusting God isn’t always about getting answers. Sometimes it’s about staying in the conversation even when you don’t like what He’s saying, or not saying anything at all.
I began to whisper again, not out of certainty, but desperation: “God, I don’t understand You. But please don’t leave me.”
And He didn’t.
Like Hosea’s love for Gomer, God kept loving me while I ran, while I doubted, while I broke every spiritual rule in the book. He pursued me not with thunder and lightning, but with mercy and memories. He reminded me of the quiet moments we once shared, the prayers He did answer, the peace that once anchored me when everything else fell apart.
And slowly, I returned.
Not with the same faith I had before, but with something deeper. A faith that’s softer, more modest, and genuinely true to itself. A faith that doesn’t pretend everything is okay but believes God is still present even when everything is not.
Today, I still don’t have all the answers. I still wrestle. I still get tired. But now, I know I can bring that tiredness to Him without shame. I can say, “God, I’m angry.” And He’ll still listen. I can say, “God, I’m scared.” And He’ll still hold me.
The cross taught me that even Jesus felt abandoned, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matthew 27:46). If Jesus could say that, then I’m allowed to feel it too. But the resurrection taught me that silence isn’t the end of the story.
So to the one who feels like giving up on God, I get it.
But don’t confuse silence for absence. Don’t mistake the waiting for abandonment. He’s still there. Still loving you. Still holding your story in His hands.
Even when you’re done with Him, He’s not done with you.
Written By: Andrew Buxton
Odorkor official Town Central District
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