I lost my job in a week. Then my health started to fail. And in the same two months I almost lost the thing I’d built my whole adult life around.
Not “my faith was tested.” I lost it. I stopped praying in the mornings because there was nothing I could say that didn’t sound like begging. I stopped reading the Bible because every psalm that started with “the Lord is good” landed like a slap. I was not in a questioning season. I was in a leaving season.
This is what actually held me. Not a verse. Not a plan. Three things I didn’t have when I thought I did, and one thing I stopped trying to do.
The Honest Confession
I want to be clear about what “faith” looked like in the middle of it.
It looked like me sitting in the car in the parking lot at 11pm, not going inside, because the inside was where I’d have to pretend the kids could sleep through everything. It looked like me not opening the Bible app for six weeks. It looked like me saying “I don’t know if God is still here” out loud to my spouse, and hearing the word “abandonment” come out in my own voice.
That’s not a devotional. That’s a person in a room with no ceiling. And the three things that held me were not answers to that room. They were the floor under it.
The Three Anchors That Held
1. One community, not a church.
I went to one small group. Four other people who were not in my situation and not “there for me” — they were just there. One of them had gone through something that didn’t have a happy ending yet, and we sat in it together without anyone performing recovery.
The community wasn’t the anchor because it gave me answers. It was the anchor because it was a room where I could say “I don’t know” and nobody flinched. The moment I said it and nobody flinched, the word “abandonment” stopped costing me something. I could keep saying it. That’s the whole point of it.
2. One small truth I could hold.
Not a verse. A truth I’d read years before and had filed away as “that’s for other people.” It was the line from Romans 8:28 — “all things work together for good for those who love God.” Not because I believed the world was working out. Because I couldn’t say it was working against me.
The truth I held wasn’t “everything happens for a reason.” It was “I am not in a situation that is purely against me.” That’s a smaller claim. It’s the one that was actually true, in the room with no ceiling. I didn’t need the whole theology. I needed the one sentence I could say without lying.
3. The record of past faithfulness, not the record of this season.
I kept a list. Not of the good things in this season. Of the good things in the last thirty years that I’d said “God did that.” The job I got at 29. The diagnosis that came back clean at 34. The friend who showed up at my door the night I was alone.
The list wasn’t there to make this season feel okay. It was there so I could point to thirty years and say: this is not the whole story. This is one chapter in a book that has already done things I didn’t deserve. The record was the floor. The room with no ceiling was still there, but the floor was under it.
What I Stopped Trying to Do
I stopped trying to feel grateful.
Not because gratitude is wrong. Because in the room with no ceiling, gratitude was a performance. I was doing the “I’m so thankful” voice while the car was still cold and the next day was another day of the same. The performance of gratitude was the thing that finally broke the last wire between me and the thing I’d called faith, because I could no longer hear the difference between the voice and the thing.
I stopped saying “I’m thankful.” I started saying “I’m here.” One word. The thing I was actually doing. The rest of the faith came back when I stopped performing it and just sat in the one word.
A Short Prayer (The One I Actually Prayed)
Not a nice one. The one I prayed at 11pm in the parking lot, with the engine off and the kids asleep upstairs:
“I don’t know if you’re still here. I can’t say it without the voice breaking. I’m not asking you to explain it. I’m not asking you to fix it. I’m just saying I’m still saying it. I’m still here. I don’t know what you’re doing. I know what I’m doing is sitting in the car. So sit in the car with me. That’s all I’ve got.”
That’s the whole prayer. No theology. No resolution. Just two people in a car. One of them I can see. One I can’t. The one I can’t was the one I was talking to.
FAQ
Is “faith” the thing that’s supposed to protect me from the bad things?
No. That’s the version of faith that breaks the fastest. The version that held me was not a shield. It was a floor. The bad things still happened. The floor just meant I wasn’t falling off the edge of the world.
What if you can’t say “I’m thankful” without lying?
Stop saying it. Say “I’m here.” The word “here” is the honest one. Faith in a broken season is not a performance. It’s a presence. The presence is the thing that comes back when you stop performing it.
Does the “record of past faithfulness” work if the current season is the only one you have?
Yes. The list is not a guarantee. It’s a floor. You don’t need to be able to point to the next good thing. You just need to be able to point to the last thirty. The record is not a prediction. It’s an anchor.
How long does the “room with no ceiling” last?
I don’t know. Mine lasted about nine months. Some are shorter. Some are longer. The one word “here” is the thing that lasts. Everything else comes back on its own schedule.