My Daughter’s Death Changed My Religious Outlook

Trigger warning: child loss

My entire family grew up in church. We bowed our heads before family dinners, wore our best on Sundays, and I can’t remember a time where my grandma didn’t have her pink, floral Bible sitting on her nightstand.

Christianity was a part of me, and when my daughter died, that was no different. I planned a typical Christian viewing and funeral for her, and it was perfect. It was what I needed and wanted at the moment. I spoke of how much I missed her, how I was hopeful that she was sitting on my grandma’s lap as she played Mozart on the piano, and how I hoped that Jesus would walk her through the parted seas. 

The elective contemplations I had were more useful and more difficult: that she was genuinely gone, all around, shape, and structure, that I would place her in the ground soon when she hadn’t went through 24 hours from me, that this was the last farewell, and the jobs we played were inverse what they ought to be. I constrained myself to conceal the other intrusive musings with something better, prettier than whatever her passing was. I expected to envision her some place bright, cheerful, and warm. I expected to accept that she was some way or another settled and, eventually, wasn’t however dead as she might have been the last time I saw her. I can see since I utilized my confidence as a cover for my disavowal.

It seems like naturally accepting everybody is of the Christian confidence is a right of section where I come from. Tribute shared online with subtitles like “soar” or “presently you’re in the arms of our Lord” are presumably the most widely recognized ones you’ll see when somebody bites the dust around here. It should be consoling, not exclusively to whoever is sharing yet to those nearest to the expired.

Remarks like these and more are no aliens to me, even still. I’m told by others how they envision my little girl in life following death now, how glad she must be, and that she’s “peering down on me from paradise.” I realize they have good intentions, and I like their readiness to attempt. Be that as it may, of late, these Bible Belt remarks have started to feel like void clichés coming up short on any genuine wistful significance.

I’ve lost (or possibly discovered?) what I have faith in throughout the long term. I actually have confidence in a higher force, however I don’t have a similar undying confidence as I once did. I can stop for a minute I trust happens when we kick the bucket, what I trust happened to my little girl while being sufficiently unassuming to concede that I may be off-base.

I feel like many Christians, in their heart of hearts, recognize this too, but they won’t admit it because to do so would feel like they are denying God. Their thoughts aren’t lining up with their feelings. Christians have been conditioned to believe that questioning God’s word is the same as denying his word. People aren’t thinking for themselves — the church and the Word of God are doing their thinking for them.

I used to push out my doubts about Christianity because those thoughts “weren’t from God” but something much more sinister. When I finally took a cold, hard look in the light of day at those doubts, I started to realize that they held some merit. Now, I’ve found myself questioning everything I once believed to be true about Christianity.

My grief has transformed through this time of spiritual change. Whereas I used to find peace thinking about my daughter doing “heavenly” things, these thoughts make me uncomfortable and sad now. Being bold enough to admit that I’m not sure what the afterlife looks like for my daughter or anyone else has been one of the most trying aspects of my grief. Being sensible about my uncertainty is to erase the warm and fuzzy ideas I had about my child’s death and replace them with something much more realistic.

It isn’t simple work. In any case, maybe the most troublesome aspect is realizing that, even after I’ve said my tranquility, numerous Christians won’t regard my perspective. All things being equal, it will transform into some pitiful tale about a dispossessed mother who lost her confidence bitterly for her Lord. However, on the off chance that you know me, you’ll realize that that generalization doesn’t fit me.

I wish Christians realized that I can convey broken pieces that drive me crazy without being a messed up and irate individual. I can be practical without my perspectives being some type of sacrilege. I can do whatever I need to do to get my brain in the right headspace to lament this horrendous misfortune. Since that is the thing, it’s my misfortune. I will pick how to manage it.

It’s taken me years to discover what works, and I’ve tracked down that the Christian thought of seeing passing fails to help me. I push ahead by recollecting my little girl for what her identity was, and I make no expressions of remorse for it.

I trust there is a paradise, and I trust I discover my girl there one day. Meanwhile, I will not permit myself to harp on the unlimited conceivable outcomes. I decide to be practical in my sorrow on the grounds that envisioning doesn’t make her demise any simpler on me; it draws out it for me.