(Vashishtha Jogi, via Unsplash.com and used under Creative Commons zero)
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I've been angry with God for a few years now.
It started when a dear friend -- warm, talented, outgoing and in all ways a wonder -- lost her husband. She hadn't had things easy for a long time but had found this man -- caring, quiet and understanding, the perfect foil for her exuberance -- and at last found happiness. Their son and ours were born two days apart, and they've been like brothers ever since.
And then her husband died.
He had a heart attack on Valentine's Day and never recovered, despite weeks of valiant efforts by doctors and specialists. He hung on for almost two months, rarely conscious, and then slipped away. He was 30-something.
Another friend who took weeks off work to be present with her through endless hospital visits was diagnosed with breast cancer.
A neighbor, one of the most godly men I have ever met and an absolute joy to be around, was found to have a brain tumor. Surgeons and chemotherapy reduced its size and kept it in check for a while, but it is now growing again. He and his wife have three adorable little girls and a ridiculously cute little boy.
None of them deserved this.
