When We Scream at the One Who Holds Us—and Trust Anyway

There’s a belief—often unspoken—that if we trust God, He will make things better. That prayer will shield us. That faith will smooth the road.

But then a flood comes.
And it takes a Christian summer camp filled with children.

And the question is spoken aloud:
“Where was your God?”

These are the moments when clichés collapse. When bumper-sticker faith peels off in the rain. When the phrases we’ve rehearsed—“God has a plan,” “Everything happens for a reason”—start to feel more like salt than salve.

What do we do when trusting God doesn’t stop the pain?

What do we do when He could have stopped it—and didn’t?

Trust and Suffering Are Not Opposites

This is where many lose their faith. But it’s also where the Bible gets brutally honest.

Job was a good man. Blameless, in fact. And yet he lost everything—his children, his wealth, his health, even the respect of his friends. His wife, devastated by the suffering, looked at him and said, “Curse God and die.”

She wasn’t weak. She was human. And I understand her.

Job didn’t receive answers. God didn’t explain Himself. He didn’t offer reasons. He just was. And Job, sitting in the ashes said:

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” (Job 13:15)

Not because it made sense. Not because it felt good. But because Job trusted in the fact that God is beyond our understanding. And that was enough to keep holding on.

Habakkuk: The Prophet Who Screamed and Stayed

Another voice from the pages of Scripture—Habakkuk—didn’t just cry out to God. He screamed in anguish and frustration:

“How long, Lord, must I call for help, but You do not listen?
Or cry out to You, ‘Violence!’ but You do not save?” (Habakkuk 1:2)

He saw chaos, injustice, silence, and he said so – boldly. But here’s what’s so staggering:

He screamed at the very One he was still clinging to.

He planted himself on the watchtower and waited for an answer. And when God finally spoke, it wasn’t the answer he wanted.

Yet by the end of the book, Habakkuk said this:

“Though the fig tree does not bud
and there are no grapes on the vines…
yet I will rejoice in the Lord.” (Habakkuk 3:17–18)

He didn’t say this because things had improved.
He said it in spite of the fact that they hadn’t.

Habakkuk didn’t walk away. He rested in the One he had shouted at.
This is not easy faith. This is faith with a limp.

Crimson Cord Faith

I won’t make excuses for God. I won’t pretend to understand His ways.

But I believe—no, I cling—to the truth that He is still who He says He is. He does not change. He is just. He is love. And somehow—through agony, through silence, through death—He is working redemption that I cannot yet see.

The Hebrew word for hope is tikvah—which also means cord or rope. It’s the word used for the scarlet cord Rahab tied in her window. A symbol of rescue. A thread of survival.

That’s what I’m holding on to. Crimson cord faith.
Blood-stained, tear-soaked, but unbreakable.

The Mirror in the Doctor’s Office

Years ago, Dr. James Dobson told a story about his small child suffering from a serious ear infection. The doctor had to act fast—no anesthesia, no preparation. He had to cut something out immediately.

Dobson held his son across his knees while the child screamed, unable to comprehend why his father was letting this happen.

But in the room was a mirror. And in that mirror, the child caught his father’s eyes.

Eyes full of pain.

The child didn’t understand the why.
But he was being held.
And he saw the face of love.

That image stays with me. Because sometimes we are that child. Screaming in pain. Helpless. Confused. Asking why the One who claims to love us allows such agony.

And sometimes all we get is a glimpse of His eyes.
And the knowledge that He hasn’t let go.

When the Hurt Is Yours—or Someone You Love

Maybe you’ve carried a deep loss.
Maybe someone you love has suffered unfairly, unbearably, and you have no answers—just ache.

You don’t have to pretend it’s okay. The Bible never asks you to. In fact, it gives you permission to scream at the God who holds you.

Because real faith doesn’t mean silence.
It means still facing Him, even when you don’t understand.

You don’t have to explain it.
You don’t have to fix it.

You just have to hold on.
Dig in your heels.
Clutch the crimson cord.
And whisper with every shred of hope left:

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.”

Because I’ve seen His eyes in the mirror.
And I know—He’s still there.