Tag Archives: Short Stories

Where are you?

16 Feb

I’d love to hear your opinions, and especially if someone would be lovely enough to help me out with redrafting, I will pay you in coffee and chocolates. Or alcohol, whichever you’d prefer. 🙂

Where are you?

I wonder where you are, for you cannot be here. My most merciful, loving God, you cannot be here for you would never allow such pain. Where are you? You cannot be here in the eyes of my child, in the cold blood running through his weakening body, in the beat of his dying heart, in the cancer that once was his mind.

No, God, you cannot be here for you are good and no good being could ever witness such heartache as lingers in every tear that Christens him once again, in your name, and allow it to happen if they were capable of stopping it. The doctors and nurses, so good, are doing what they can and yet you, the epitome of good, do nothing when you alone can stop this now. You are good and you are capable so I can only understand that you are not here.

Where are you? You cannot be here in the drip of the tubes, in the whir of the machines, his only hold on Earth, in the ticking of the clocks that heralds in yet more pain for you would not permit his suffering. He is your child as much as he is mine, more so it is said, and a parent’s love could never allow such suffering, any suffering, to ruin their child thus.

And you would not permit my suffering for I too am your child and to witness my son in such pain causes me more anguish than Christ himself, nailed to the cross, could ever have contemplated.

My God, where are you? In the slums of Africa? At the heart of Chernobyl? In the midst of a battlefield? In the ruins of the trade centre? In Normandy, Dunkirk, Flander’s Field? Where are you? And why are you not here?

Why are you, my own God not here in my moment of need? In my child’s moment of need? He is an innocent babe, and yet you would let him suffer so?


I have asked so often now and still have not had a reply. Your ministers, your priests, your clergy, they tell me you work in mysterious ways. They tell me you punish transgressors, that the fall is the reason for this suffering, but that is wrong. No kind, caring God would force onto a child the punishment of it’s elders, and no reasonable God would punish a child at all. They are children for a reason, if they have done wrong then the blame should rest on their parents’ shoulders, on the shoulders of those who are meant to look after them, for children are innocent of wrongs, they do not know better.

You created them to not know any better, you gave them the ability to learn, to be taught, so punish the teacher if the child does not learn.

But this does not matter to me, for my boy has done nothing wrong. Nothing.

And then they tell me you are trying to teach the world a lesson. A lesson in what? Cruelty? Pain? Anger? That is all I see here. I do not feel remorse for the actions of those in your paradise. I do not feel an overwhelming urge to help others, to give love to the world, to live in peace. All I have learned from this is how much I have it in me to hate, to despise someone who once I had looked upon with devotion. There is no good lesson here. It does not teach me to worship you even through pain, to find comfort in your presence, to find safety in your church. It teaches me to doubt, to hate, and yes, to fear. Is that what you want? Do you want fear? That is not devotion, that is not worship, that is not love, that is not respect, that is not honour, that is not good. That is not God.

But then, why else would you allow this? For my son to ‘die a martyr for the cause of furthering God’s work’? To ‘follow in Christ’s footsteps’, a ‘sacrifice to humanity’? To ‘suffer, directly or indirectly, for the sins that humanity have committed’? Is he being punished for other’s actions? Their hidden sins; lust, greed envy? Or the sins they flaunt brazenly; nuclear war, genetic engineering?

No, I do not accept this excuse. I do not believe my loving God would sanction such a cruel act merely for his own good, to further his own mission. Nor would he repeat his actions and allow his child to suffer for the sins of others. No, he is too good for such an act. Only an impious hand would place upon the head of a child a crown of thorns reserved for ‘greater’ men. And God’s hand is most pious. God is most pious.

But where are you? And why have you chosen to be elsewhere when you’re needed here? I do not understand how you could chose so. Does my child, whose eyes can no longer stay open, whose heart weakens further every second, whose cold hand, once grasped tight around my fingers, is slackening, does he not merit your attention, your sympathy, your help?

As my child’s weakening body prepares to give up his soul to your care, where are you? Where are you? Will you be there to take care of him in death, when you could not do so in life? Will you love him when he is with you, as you did not when he lived? My God, where are you?

Every step closer he gets to you, you are a step further away from me. Where are you? I can no longer find you in his smile, his eyes, his life. My God, where are you?