In the Middle of Faith That Feels Fragile

Grief can strip faith down to its barest bones.

Before we lost Haven, I thought my faith was steady enough. I knew the right verses, sang the worship songs without hesitation, and believed, in theory, that God was good in every season. But if I’m honest, even before this loss my faith wasn’t as strong as it probably should have been. I feel ashamed admitting that. I loved God, but there were parts of my faith that were comfortable, routine, and mostly untested.

Losing Haven exposed that.

When the grief hit, it didn’t just break my heart – it revealed how fragile parts of my faith actually were. Some of my most honest prayers in those early weeks were not whispered politely. They were yelled from the floor. Crying out to God, demanding answers that never came. Why our baby? Why us? Why create a life only for it to end?

I kept thinking about the words in Psalm 139: “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.” I had always found those verses comforting; the idea that every life is intentionally formed by God. But after our loss, that truth suddenly raised more questions than comfort. If God knit her together… why didn’t we get to keep her?

I had spent years believing God was near in suffering. I had felt it before. But this time? I didn’t know what to do with Him. There were days when my prayers sounded more like accusations than devotion. And yet somehow, those angry prayers were still prayers.

I kept showing up to church. I kept serving. From the outside it probably looked like faithfulness. But inside, my heart felt hardened and distant. I would stand in the sanctuary during worship, hearing lyrics about God’s goodness and faithfulness, and feel a quiet resistance rise in my chest. I wanted to believe what we were singing. I just didn’t know if I could. The songs that once brought comfort suddenly felt like words belonging to someone else’s story.

Even at home, grief changed the small rhythms of faith. For months, I couldn’t sing songs to my 3 year old the way I used to. It is Well and Goodness of God had always been his favorites. But after the loss, the words caught in my throat. I wasn’t sure I believed them enough to sing them out loud. So most nights, I simply didn’t sing. For a long time, I wondered if my anger meant my faith was failing.

Recently I attended a Hope Mommies retreat with more than seventy other women who have also lost babies (130 sweet precious babies lost between us – can you believe that?) Sitting in those rooms, listening to their stories, something shifted in me…not because everything suddenly made sense, but because I realized I wasn’t the only one wrestling. These women carried grief that looked just as heavy as mine –years of it, in some cases. Their stories weren’t neat or polished. Many of them had walked through anger, doubt, silence, and seasons where their faith felt thin. But they kept coming back to God, even when it was messy. Hearing that honesty gave me permission to admit that my faith right now is still very much in process.

This loss has exposed parts of my story I can’t ignore anymore. It’s shown me how easily my faith could drift into routine instead of real dependence on God. That realization has been uncomfortable, even humbling. But maybe it’s also an invitation. Not to suddenly become spiritually strong overnight. But to start rebuilding something more real.

Just this past week, I opened my Bible again for the first time in a while. Not because I felt spiritually strong, but because I didn’t know where else to go. And strangely, the words I’ve been drawn to haven’t been the triumphant ones. They’ve been the ones that sound like grief.

In Lamentations 3, the writer says, “I remember my affliction and my wandering… my soul is downcast within me.”When I read that, it felt honest in a way I needed. Scripture doesn’t pretend sorrow away. It names it. But a few verses later, the passage says something else: “Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his mercies are new every morning.”

If I’m honest, I’m still learning how to hold both of those truths at the same time. The downcast soul. And the quiet possibility of hope.

Right now I’m only a week into opening my Bible again. Some days the words bring comfort. Other days they just sit there on the page while my questions linger. I’m not suddenly full of clarity or certainty. But I’m starting again.

Part of that desire comes from my three-year-old. I want my child to see what faith looks like…not just when life is easy, but when it’s painfully hard. I want to be the kind of mom who fears God, who trusts Him even when the story doesn’t make sense.

Right now that doesn’t look like strong, unshakable faith. It looks like small steps. Opening Scripture even when my heart still hurts. Praying even when the words come out angry. Letting my child see a mom who is still learning how to trust God in the middle of grief.

I don’t know exactly what healing will look like or how long it will take. I’m not standing on the other side of this loss with everything figured out. If anything, I’m standing in the middle of it, trying to figure out how to walk with God while my heart is still broken. But maybe faith sometimes begins right there. Not with certainty. But with the small, imperfect decision to keep turning back toward God – even when you’re not sure what to say.