If there is a God, what the hell is he for?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic
A 40 year old mother has lost her beloved 8 year old son to cancer. We see her approach to the tragic situation, and her feelings towards it.

Submitted: January 02, 2015

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Submitted: January 02, 2015

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His blood would bind along his veins and thoughts would riot throughout his brain. His heart beating furiously and his body running wildly. The laugh of an adored, young boy was my content. Once, he had a kite. A bright rainbow coloured kite, that would fly freely as the wind carried it. He would giggle, and howl with excitement as the wind hoisted it up into the air with no hesitance. He would run, race as fast as he could to ensure that his beloved kite would forever be up in the air. He’d operate the kite like a true pilot for hours with his self-determination of keeping it from crashing. The wind, stopped. The valued, prized kite had crashed. Devastation swooped across his face as he collapsed to the ground in mortification. Destruction struck, as it always does.

Mouse trap. The game in which everyone loves, and so did my dearly beloved. The miniature silver pellet running wildly throughout the maze. Racing, raging persistently, as my sweetheart’s face shines with light and exhilaration, his smile reaching from ear to ear as he chuckles with amusement. Unexpectedly, the ball comes to a halt. Trapped and isolated. The mouse cannot get out of his own cage, his own territory, and he can’t escape, like a constant illness. It is impossible to shake it off, but it is inevitably, always with you. It is dreadful and frightening, as it is unpredictable and unexpected. The fear of the unknown is what people fear the most. What? When? Why? Who? Where? No one knows. Except he.

Although my dear son was joyfully blessed and constantly overjoyed, he faced an everlasting battle with the growth of it, this corruptive tumour. Rather than being constantly overjoyed, he was now constantly fatigued. He would ask to be pushed in the pram instead of walking. I was in shock and could not believe this could happen to my little boy. He was sad and depressed. His life was a living hell. Incapable of doing what other, regular 8 year old boys do, he was an 8 year old in an 80 year olds body. Witnessing the destruction of what this illness was doing to my little boy. Heart breaking.  He was so weak, and it was inevitable that he would die. The treatment ruined him, and it would have been a crime to witness his suffering furthermore. The fear of the unknown had hit, both him and I, and there is no one else to blame, except he.

Now there is silence. There is no excitement, no exhilaration, and no shining light. God is a sinful man. He does not fulfil his own commandments, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Why kill the innocent, precious people that the world is, or was, grateful to have? He flew great distances, the beautiful Northern Wheatear that flew 18,000 miles. He was free and young, and had the best life of flying across the globe. The holes filled with distance beyond the land. Now there is such a great hole right in the middle of my chest, as my loved one, my precious boy has experienced suffering and pain. The sickness God created, has sickened me. Now, the bird no longer exists. The Northern Wheatear is just a memory. God punishes the honest, the blameless. If there is a God, what the hell is he for? He is blameworthy. He is morally wrong. Nothing can replace my dear young one. But anything and everything can replace my religion. I am faithless. God is nonexistent. Shopping seems like a much better therapy, or even religion to put my whole faith in to. The time I have is not wasteful time. Clothes would never disappoint. They give me the hope, the comfort that everyone needs in their lives. God is my disappointment. I have made a great error in believing in him. But if he is such a kind, generous man, why does he fulfill the actions that he does? He is dead to me, just like my son.

 


© Copyright 2019 celyn mair . All rights reserved.

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