The sun was setting. Anthony and I were running behind to our bible study. Me, perpetually late–him perpetually trying to make up for my lost time.

I hadn’t done the readings. “I tried,” I told Anthony. The reality was I picked up our workbook and read a few pages about how flawed we humans are and how gracious our God is and how blessed we are, then I closed it. It was passable as trying–that’s all I required of myself those days.

We pulled into the lot and I grabbed my blank notes. Tonight was our “prayer experience.” Three hours of praying with one of those hours being praying aloud with our group. Essentially, it was my nightmare. Yet I’d begrudgingly signed up–roping Anthony in because I felt God had told me to–passable as trying, as I mentioned.

We walked into the quiet lobby, doors to the sanctuary open, and a gust followed us. I’ve never felt comfortable in the church–though I’ve been in one nearly every week for all of my life. For a long time, I blamed the people inside. I suppose that’s still part of it, but lately, I realized it was what was inside of me that made me feel as though I didn’t belong.

Anthony tugged me to our room. My instinct, as always in these situations, was to run. The idea of sharing my prayers–or lack there of–with strangers was more than enough to make me pretend to be sick, but it was too late for that.

“I don’t have anything to say to Him,” I told Anthony on our way; Anthony didn’t press me. He had nodded. We had just found out that our embryo transfer was on hold for my unexpected polypectomy.

August. August was supposed to be our transfer month before that day. Maybe July if all went well. Against my better judgement, I bought a newborn onesie for the occasion that said “finally” across the chest with little hearts beneath it. When the nurse told us that we were no longer an August transfer and I’d need several months for healing before a transfer would be considered, I quietly folded the tiny garment and hid it deep in a drawer. I didn’t want to plan anymore.

For the first hour of our prayer experience, we spent it as a group talking about our reading. Almost immediately, I felt tears pulsing in the back of my head. I didn’t understand it and, though I tried, I couldn’t swallow it away. Everyone was going around talking about how great God’s love is and how small we are. As each new voice chimed in, I moved closer to the edge of losing my composure. And then all of the sudden, I couldn’t control the tears. They came quickly and without reason–furious and hot on my face. It wasn’t sadness, but anger that was welling up inside me.

I excused myself in the middle of a prayer and made a break for the lobby to get some air, but was greeted by a group of small children. Their continuation ceremony was being hosted in the sanctuary.

My heart physically ached at the sight of them. I backed away and raced to the farthest corner of the church and wept. I told myself to stop. To pull it together. To stop making a scene, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t mend what had broken somewhere. I was coming undone and I no longer had the materials to stitch myself up.

I knew I had to return to my group, so I did my best to breathe–still the tears continued. I caught them at the end of the first hour. The next hour was dedicated to individual prayer. I was grateful at least to have a moment to gather myself. However, given that the landscape of my prayer life had become pretty barren, an hour was intimidating.

When I was alone, I was quiet, resisting the task I’d been given. Eventually, I caved. I believe God called me to be in this place–though I didn’t want to be there and though I didn’t want to speak to Him. I figured, might as well make out of it what I can.

I started speaking, but I wouldn’t call it praying. I would call it yelling–lamenting, scolding. I wasn’t gracious in my words. I wasn’t praising in my tone. I was angry and I wanted Him to know.

It was time for the dreaded out-loud group prayer. I’d resolved not to say anything. I didn’t have anything to say after all, at least, nothing nice to say.

The prayers began, each citing their blessings, each thanking and praising. There was nothing wrong with them, certainly, but something about their words pricked my already sensitive nerves.

A voice inside me whispered, “speak.” It was a mistake, else, it wasn’t the good angel on my shoulder saying so. I ignored it. And again, the voice came, louder, “speak.” I rolled my eyes and thought, “no one wants to hear what I have to say. And what I have to say isn’t very pretty.” And again, the voice urged me, pushing down on my chest, “speak.”

I didn’t understand the purpose, but I figured if God was telling me to do something, regardless of what I felt about Him in the moment, I’d better listen. I remember taking a deep breath and thinking, “alright, you asked for it.”

I spoke, “To be honest, you know that this is the last place on the earth I want to be right now. You know how I hate these things–being in a group of people I don’t know and, frankly don’t know me.” The room fell quiet. “I don’t know why I’m here. You told me to come here, at least I believe you did and yet here I am just as broken as I was when this started,” I cried and clasped my hands together tightly to keep them from shaking with rage. “You want to know the truth? The truth is, I hate you. I hate you, God. I really do,” I said as sobs unleashed from my chest. “I hate you,” I repeated, “but God, I need you. I need you so badly. I don’t understand why you’re putting me through this. I don’t understand what you want from me. I don’t want to praise you. I don’t thank you. I’m just so pissed at you, and that’s the truth.”

I stopped, wiped my face, and remained quiet until it was time to leave. Others prayed for me–they probably prayed for my soul. I didn’t blame them. I was about the most bitter person that had stepped into that room. One of the girls thanked me for my honesty, and the pressure on my chest disappeared.

Truthfully, I’m not sure if what I said was for the betterment of the people around me. But something told me that my harsh words were meant to make some sort of impact. It was an important moment because it was the first time in a long time that I listened to that little voice–that I acted on its command.

Even at my most broken, God was still with me. Even at my most angry, God did not forsake me. Even when I pushed Him away, He never gave up on me.

The truth is that at the end there, it wasn’t me who got to these little babies, it was Him who picked me up and carried me to them. If your faith is wavering, friends, God does not waver. If your heart is breaking, God does not break.

Even now, I still am struggling to mend the relationship I have with God because of these deep wounds, but I see the truth in Him when I feel these little ones move. Only He can make something beautiful from something ugly–I’ve never once doubted that.