Let’s be honest—faith isn’t always tidy or poetic. It’s raw, human, and sometimes awkward. Juliet and Pontian once asked me why I “drag God” into everything—my pain, my healing, my laughter, even my gas station runs. They wondered, shouldn’t I let life just be life sometimes? I get that. But here’s the thing: God stopped being a distant idea to me a long time ago. He became my Big Dad.
When I say I drag Him everywhere, I mean everywhere. When the fuel light blinks on an empty road, when the roof leaks, when my babies run fevers, or when the virus I’ve lived with for decades decides to whisper again. My Big Dad has been there through sleepless nights and laughter-filled mornings. He’s the reason I’m still here—thirty-plus years after HIV tried to end my story before it even began.
See, when you’ve walked through a valley with no one beside you, and an unseen hand lifts you out, your faith changes shape. It stops being about religion and becomes a relationship. The God I drag everywhere isn’t a sermon or a Sunday ritual. He’s a conversation—a companion who listens when I doubt, who laughs when I rant, and who stays when everyone else leaves.
My salvation wasn’t from Eden’s apple but from rejection and stigma. When those who should have held me pulled away, grace showed up—with shoes, timing, and humor. That’s the God I carry with me.
So yes, Juliet, sometimes illness is just life doing what life does. But sometimes it’s also a sacred classroom, where pain teaches endurance and grace teaches gratitude. I’ve learned that suffering doesn’t glorify God, but how we grow through it does.
And Pontian, you’re right too—no one owns God. We all approach Him limping with our contradictions. If we can drag our fear, gossip, and pain everywhere, why not our faith?
Maybe I’m not dragging God after all. Maybe I’m just acknowledging He’s always been there—in the hospital corridors, in the quiet panic, in the laughter that refuses to die.
So I won’t apologize for taking Him everywhere. I’ll keep arguing with Him in traffic, thanking Him for my twins’ giggles, and trusting Him with tomorrow’s worries. Faith, when it’s real, doesn’t hide behind church doors—it breathes through everyday life.
To anyone carrying pain, illness, or invisible battles—take your God too. Let Him sit in your confusion and exhaustion. Because sometimes, faith isn’t a polished prayer. It’s a whispered “Help me, Dad” when the fuel tank is empty—and somehow, by grace, you still make it to the next gas station.
Leave a Reply