My faith crumbled after I lost my mother. In full transparency, it was always a little delicate and fragile. My mother’s life was built upon faith; it’s why she raised me in the pews of the church. Since she was my absolute favorite person in the world, I always held an allegiance to anything she believed in—even when I didn’t fully comprehend what it was or what it meant.
Faith and Jesus were a few of those things.
They always felt so abstract, so hard to grasp. With time, I grew to find the same hope, love, and opportunities in Christianity that my mother did. I never felt as boldly faithful as most of the congregation or other believers, but I believed.
And so, I prayed.
And I trusted.
And then my 57-year-old mother died, a woman who built her life around serving others and making this world a better place.
Of all people to die prematurely—before retirement and gray hair, before so many life experiences—she should have been last on the list. I went from praising the Lord to being His biggest critic. I went from feeling like faith was my comfort to feeling like my faith was a sham.
I was angry and bitter, unable to comprehend the fact that my mother was gone. Fearful and anxious, unsure how to move through this life without her. I barely felt old enough, or mature enough, to live this reality and each day that would come without her.
"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." - Psalm 34:18
This verse feels like a balm now, but I felt far from saved or comforted back then. I felt alone, as if the very God who promised to be with us in our suffering had left me to wrestle with grief I couldn’t carry.
And then I felt shame for having lost the faith that my mother built.
And then I felt embarrassed by the version of me that appeared after losing her.
And then I felt paralyzed by a pain I’d never experienced and one deeper than I’d ever felt.
And one day, in absolute despair and desperation, unable to get up off the floor, which had become my haven—the lowest place I could be to match the deepest longing and hopelessness I’d ever felt—I yelled to God.
I begged for answers. I begged for solace. I begged for time to turn back and for things to be different. I begged for a heart that could heal from this tragedy. I begged for my mother, wherever she may be, to be at peace and know she is loved. I begged for this grief not to change me in harmful and irreparable ways.
I begged, and I begged, and I begged.
And right there, on my scratchy carpet floor, I realized that all this pleading and begging was really a cry for help—a prayer.
“Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.” - 1 Peter 5:7
At that moment, I cast my heavy soul onto God, even if I didn’t fully recognize it.
But how can I pray if I no longer believe? Why would I start a conversation with someone I lacked faith in or trusted?
I wouldn’t—which meant that even in the darkest places of my mourning, I believed. My faith had been shattered and unrecognizable. It had been hard to find and hidden, but it remained.
My faith wasn’t like that of so many I knew. It was breakable. It was challenging. It was hard-fought.
It was imperfect.
But it remained.
"Though He slays me, yet will I hope in Him." - Job 13:15
This verse, like my faith, doesn’t feel pretty. It feels jagged, scarred by loss and tragedy. But this very rough-around-the-edges faith has kept me going. I have found a deeper truth in my mess: God never asked for perfection. He asked for trust, even the smallest seed of it. He asks us to come, bruised and weary and lay our burdens down.
And so, I did. My faith was breakable but able to be mended and built again—dare I say, even stronger than before. My faith was challenging, but I could endure the struggle, the questions, the fear, and the disappointment. And more than anything, my faith was hard-fought because it was worth fighting for. It was worth figuring out on my own, even if it was messy and didn’t resemble the pretty faith of others.
And I’m okay with that. I’d rather hold a faith built by hard times and heartbreak than one built upon the naïve beliefs of those untouched by life’s pain and chaos.
My faith has been through the fire. It was buried six feet under on a hot day in July and still resurfaced. It has been with me in wonderful moments, but more importantly, in the ones that could take my life, too.
"We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope." - Romans 5:3-4
This hope—born from the soil of loss and pain—has given me new strength. I have learned to carry grief and grace, lean on God even when life feels unbearable, and trust that He will turn my ashes into beauty.
This is the faith I’m proud of—one forged in sorrow, strengthened by survival and held together not by perfection but by resilience. It’s the kind of faith that doesn’t have to be whole to be holy, the kind that shatters and rebuilds with every ache and every prayer, proving that even in the wreckage, there is still a glimmer of hope worth holding on to.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” - Jeremiah 29:11
This verse may not erase the pain, but it helps me see that even through my mother’s absence, God has a future for me. In her memory and the faith she passed on, I see a path forward—one that I am determined to walk, broken, sometimes difficult to comprehend, but unafraid.
In moments of doubt and despair, I remind myself that my faith may be breakable and flawed, but it is real. Even when I stumble, God holds me close. In the end, this faith—battle-worn, shaped by sorrow, and bound by resilience—is enough.
A hard-fought faith is still faith, which might be the most encouraging.
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