Abby Norman - You Can Talk to God Like That: The Surprising Power of Lament to Save Your Faith

Abby Norman

Broadleaf Books

MINNEAPOLIS

YOU CAN TALK TO GOD LIKE THAT

The Surprising Power of Lament to Save Your Faith

Copyright 2021 Abby Norman. Printed by Broadleaf Books, an imprint of 1517 Media. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Email or write to Permissions, Broadleaf Books, PO Box 1209, Minneapolis, MN 55440-1209.

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version, NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc. Scripture quotations marked NRSV are taken from New Revised Standard Version Bible: Anglicized Edition, copyright 1989, 1995 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Scripture quotations marked PHILLIPS are taken from The New Testament in Modern English by J. B. Phillips, copyright 1960, 1972 by J. B. Phillips. Administered by The Archbishops Council of the Church of England. Used by Permission.

While the author and 1517 Media have confirmed that all references to website addresses (URLs) were accurate at the time of writing, URLs may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared.

Cover design: Cindy Laun

Print ISBN: 978-1-5064-6906-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-5064-6907-2

To my mother, whose faith taught me about a God I could trust with my whole self

I t takes a village to raise a child, and also to write a book (especially if you are also raising children). This is especially true if you are writing a book in the midst of a pandemic. If nothing else, the process of this book has reminded me of how rich I am in love and support. If you sent me treats or coffee, offered to watch my kids, prayed for me, or responded to my text messages and desperate tweets with sincere encouragement or ridiculous GIFs, know that I am so deeply grateful for you. This would not have happened without you.

To my internet safe places: Tanya, Beth, Jen, and all of Inkwell, thank you for believing in me even when I couldnt and for cheering me on every step of the way. Holly, Heather, Nicole, and all the Rise community, you got me a hotel room, you fed my kids and my parents, you sent me art. Abby, you prayed me right to the end of the finish line. You were the hands and feet of Jesus every time I needed to be held up the most.

To my Megans, Volpert and Westra: thank you for being the sage voice that consistently talked me down (Volpert) and the ridiculous gift giver just when I needed ten pounds of gummy bears or a mug with the F-word on it (Westra). Both of you just get me.

To Lizzie, Michelle, Danielle, and Alison: What would I do without people who answer every single one of my text messages with grace and snark in equal measure?

To my girls: I pray that the months of being told Mommy is writing will not scar you but instead inspire you. I would apologize for all the pizza, but you liked it.

Finally, to my husband, who supports me in all my endeavors: thank you. I was not a writer when I married you, but I am deeply grateful for your editing prowess. Lets keep making room for each other.

H oney, are you mad at God? In that small sentence in our living room, her in the chair, me on the couch, my mom asked me about the one thing I hoped no one would ever notice. I was maybe seventeen and had been sick on and off for four years with what would eventually be diagnosed as fibromyalgia. I was also deeply earnest about my faith, the kind of innocent earnestness teenagers fall so easily into. I was a leader in my youth group and wore Christian T-shirts to school in the hopes of witnessing to my friends. I organized the prayer for See You at the Pole day. I was a good Christian girl. I didnt want anyone to know I was mad at God, but I was. I was really mad at God. I wanted to be good, and faithful, and sure of God. But I had been sick for so long, and it was only getting worse, and no one could figure out what was wrong with me. And 1998 was not a great time to be struggling with an autoimmune disorder. These days, everyone knows someone with fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue, or some other immunodeficiency, but when I was young, most people figured I was making it all up.

With even God ignoring my cries for healing, it felt like God didnt see my pain either.

Over the same four years that I struggled with my health, our church had a bit of a revival. The Holy Spirit showed up in miraculous ways. About once a month, I went to a prayer service and watched people be healed. On Sundays, we heard tales of a faithful God healing babies asthma and shrinking tumors. Every single month, I walked to the front of the church and allowed people to lay hands on me with the sincere belief that this time, God would heal me. Every month, I believed I was healed and lived into that healing by insisting I was OK before collapsing into a pile of exhaustion when it became clear I was not. At the end of one of those heart-wrenching cycles, I dragged myself from my bedroom to the living room and fell into an aching heap on the couch. It was then that my mother asked me if I was mad at God.

When I think about that teenager now, in her gray marching band hoodie, crying in her living room, I am so grateful for what happened next: my mother saw me. I looked up at my mom, horrified that she knew my secret. I was very, very mad at God. I could not understand why God was letting me remain sick when I knew God had the power to heal. I had, for my whole life, been faithful to God, and now God was not returning the favor. How could God have forgotten about me? Why would God not heal me? Didnt God know I was in pain? Couldnt God see that I was suffering? I was so confused and angry with God, and I was terrified that being angry at God meant that I was bad. Good Christian girls praised God. They loved Jesus and talked about their faith and trust in him. I was sure being angry at God was the opposite of thatsomething that failed Christians did. I was sure being angry with God was not a choice.

My mom scooped me into her lap (well, sort ofI was at this point bigger than she was). She held me and rocked me and said what I think are the two most important sentences I have ever heard: Me too. I am mad at God too. I completely dissolved into a puddle of tears. I was not going to be judged for my anger and sorrow. I was not alone in resenting an all-powerful God who refused to heal me. I was not the only one who felt like God had somehow forgotten me. I was allowed to be mad at God. I am so glad my mom was willing to teach me that. That lesson has saved my faith over and over again.

I was reminded of that moment almost twenty years later in my first year of seminary, studying the Old Testament with Dr. Joel LeMon. Dr. LeMon, with his signature bow ties, was one of those professors who knew how to not only give his students the material they needed but also pass on his love of the things he taught. And this man loved the Old Testament, especially the psalms. In the midst of teaching them (which took him three class periods longer than it was supposed to because LeMon thought everything was important), Dr. LeMon said something that affirmed that moment in my mothers arms: As long as you are talking