Watching my dad's health deteriorate was hard. I can't find better words for what it was like.
At the end, I didn't know what to pray for anymore. I remember being at the hospital thinking "what would mercy be at this
point: a miraculous recovery or a quick death?" Because anything in-between
those two would just be cruel.
I sat there thinking I was sure he was going to die. 80% sure. I was also sure God
could intervene. Didn't mean he was going to though.
I wasn't mad at God for not answering my MANY prayers, begging for healing.
My faith in God didn't die along with my father but it was shaken. I wasn't angry, I was confused.
I still wonder how my dad's suffering and death fit into the master plan of life. And I pray all the time saying the same thing with my head bent, like it's a chant: "God I don't understand but help me accept it, I don't understand but help me accept it, I don't understand but help me accept it."