I Think I’m Angry at God

I showed up to my quiet time today begrudgingly.

Not because I didn’t want God.

Because lately it feels like every time I take one step closer to Him, another battle is waiting around the corner. One battle after another. (No, not the Leonardo DiCaprio movie.) Just the kind that leaves you wondering how much more your heart can actually carry.

If I’m honest, I’ve started asking questions I never imagined I would ask.

God… why does it feel like the closer I get to You, the more personal the attacks become?

I don’t ask that because I doubt His goodness.

I ask because I’m tired.

I’m sad.

I’m angry.

I’m disappointed.

I’m disappointed in circumstances. I’m disappointed in myself. And if I’m being completely transparent, there have been moments where I’ve even felt disappointed in God.

That feels almost sinful to admit.

We’re taught to bring God our praise, our worship, our gratitude, our victories. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that disappointment wasn’t something I could place at His feet.

So instead, I buried it.

I smiled when I wanted to cry.

I said, “I’m okay,” when I was anything but.

I tried to convince myself that if I ignored what I was feeling long enough, eventually it would disappear.

It didn’t.

It became anger.

It became impatience.

It became sharp words that I regretted almost as soon as they left my mouth.

It became isolation.

It became me slowly losing control because I was trying so desperately to keep control.

I’ve realized something about myself.

What isn’t surrendered eventually leaks.

Sometimes through anger.

Sometimes through sarcasm.

Sometimes through shutting people out.

Sometimes through tears that seem completely out of proportion to whatever happened in that moment.

The truth is, those moments are rarely about that moment.

They’re about everything I’ve refused to acknowledge.

Maybe that’s why God met me where He did today.

Because He has this incredible way of speaking exactly when I need Him to, even when I arrive with a bad attitude.

His timing continues to frustrate me and amaze me all at the same time.

I keep giving Him deadlines.

He keeps inviting me into His timeline.

I want immediate answers.

Immediate healing.

Immediate peace.

Immediate relief.

He keeps reminding me that whenever He finishes is the right time.

Not because He’s slow.

Because He’s thorough.

God isn’t interested in getting me through this as quickly as possible.

He’s interested in making sure I become who He’s called me to be on the other side of it.

That brought me to Nehemiah.

Before there were rebuilt walls, there was a broken man.

Before there was construction, there was emotional honesty.

When Nehemiah heard about Jerusalem, Scripture doesn’t tell us he stuffed his emotions down or tried to stay positive.

It says he sat down and wept. He mourned. He fasted. He prayed. (Nehemiah 1:4)

He named what was broken.

And I think that’s where so many of us get stuck.

We want God to rebuild what we’re still pretending isn’t broken.

We think emotional honesty somehow demonstrates weak faith.

I think it’s actually the foundation of real faith.

You cannot tame what you do not name.

You cannot surrender what you refuse to acknowledge.

You cannot heal what you insist doesn’t hurt.

Nehemiah’s rebuilding didn’t begin with bricks.

It began with honesty.

First with himself.

Then with God.

Then with everyone else.

I wonder how much longer I’ve delayed my own rebuilding because I was more committed to appearing strong than being honest.

I’ve spent years trying to convince people I’m okay.

Trying to convince myself I’m okay.

Meanwhile, anger has been revealing what my words refused to admit.

Maybe emotional honesty isn’t the opposite of spiritual maturity.

Maybe it’s where spiritual maturity actually begins.

One statement kept echoing in my heart today.

Renovation is more difficult than construction.

Construction starts with empty land.

Renovation starts with tearing apart something that’s already standing.

Old drywall has to come down.

Rot has to be exposed.

Foundations have to be inspected.

Things that looked perfectly fine from the outside are often the very things keeping the structure from being safe.

Renovation is loud.

It’s messy.

It creates dust.

And for a while…

Everything looks worse before it looks better.

I think that’s exactly what God is doing in me.

He’s not building a brand-new person.

He’s renovating the one that’s been shaped by years of fear, abandonment, disappointment, insecurity, pride, anger, and self-protection.

That means some walls have to come down.

Some beliefs have to be demolished.

Some coping mechanisms I’ve depended on for years have to be ripped out.

And if I’m honest…

I hate demolition.

I wish God would renovate without removing.

Heal without exposing.

Restore without breaking apart.

But that’s not how renovation works.

The strongest homes are built on foundations that have been inspected, repaired, and reinforced.

The strongest faith often comes the exact same way.

Another truth from Nehemiah challenged me deeply.

Not everything I’m capable of doing is something God has authorized me to carry.

I’ve been exhausting myself trying to rebuild everything.

Every relationship.

Every misunderstanding.

Every version of myself.

Every person’s opinion of me.

Every problem that crosses my path.

No wonder I’m exhausted.

You can’t build anything because you’re trying to build everything.

God never asked me to carry the entire city.

He assigned me one wall.

Maybe that’s why courage isn’t the absence of fear.

It’s simply obedience while fear is still talking.

Nehemiah still had to ask the king.

He still had difficult conversations.

He still had opposition.

The fear didn’t disappear.

He moved anyway.

I wish I could tell you I walked away from today feeling completely renewed.

I didn’t.

Some of the sadness is still here.

Some of the disappointment is still here.

Some of the questions are still here.

But something else is here too.

Hope.

Not because all my circumstances changed.

Because I remembered that God has never asked me to have enormous faith.

He asked for mustard-seed faith.

I’m incredibly grateful for that.

Because if I’m honest, there are days when a mustard seed feels generous.

Some days all I can manage is whispering, “Lord… please help me.”

Some days all I can do is open my Bible while my heart still feels heavy.

Some days all I have is enough faith to believe that even though I can’t see Him working, He hasn’t stopped.

Jesus never mocked small faith.

He honored it.

Maybe because He knew there would be days exactly like today.

So today, my prayer isn’t polished.

It isn’t impressive.

It’s painfully honest.

“God…

I’m sad.

I’m angry.

I’m disappointed.

I’m frustrated.

I’m tired of feeling like every step toward You is met with another battle.

I don’t understand why it feels so personal sometimes.

I don’t understand why the closer I draw to You, the more intense life seems to become.

But here I am anyway.

Not with great faith.

Not with perfect words.

Just with a mustard seed.

If You’re renovating me, don’t stop just because demolition hurts.

Expose every place I’ve been hiding.

Tear down every wall I’ve built around my own heart.

Remove every lie, every wound, every defense mechanism that no longer belongs.

Teach me to stop giving You deadlines and start trusting Your timeline.

Because if Your timing really is perfect, then I don’t want to arrive at the destination before You’ve finished the work.

Renovate all of me.

Even the parts that hurt.

Especially the parts that hurt.”

Maybe taking ownership isn’t pretending we’re okay.

Maybe it’s finally becoming honest enough to let the Master Builder touch every room we’ve spent years keeping locked.

And maybe… just maybe… that’s where rebuilding has always begun.