The sanctuary echoed with gentle laughter.
“But none of that stuff hurt like watching what Colton was going through,
and I got really mad at God,” I continued. “I’m a guy. Guys do something.
And all I felt like I could do was yell at God.”
I described briefly my attitude in that little room in the hospital, blasting
God, blaming him for Colton’s condition, whining about how he had chosen
to treat one of his pastors, as though I should somehow be exempt from
troubles because I was doing “his” work.
“At that time, when I was so upset and so outraged, can you believe that
God chose to answer that prayer?” I said. “Can you believe that I could
pray a prayer like that, and God would still answer it ‘yes’?”
What had I learned? I was reminded yet again that I could be real with
God, I told my fellow pastors. I learned that I didn’t have to offer some kind
of churchy, holy-sounding prayer in order to be heard in heaven. “You might
as well tell God what you think,” I said. “He already knows it anyway.”
Most importantly of all, I learned that I am heard. We all are. I had been a
Christian since childhood and a pastor for half my life, so I believed that
before. But now I knew it. How? As the nurses wheeled my son away
screaming, “Daddy, Daddy, don’t let them take me!”... when I was angry
at God because I couldn’t go to my son, hold him, and comfort him, God’s
son was holding my son in his lap.