Faith When the Answer Wasn’t the Answer You Prayed For

What happens to faith when you prayed—and the person you prayed for still died?

That is not a hypothetical question for me. I prayed. My family prayed. Friends prayed. Our church family prayed. People who knew us personally and people who simply heard about our journey prayed. We prayed for healing. We prayed for strength. We prayed for wisdom. We prayed for more time. And on September 13, my husband died.

There is a temptation when we tell stories of faith to rush to the victorious ending. We like testimonies where the diagnosis changes, the door opens, the relationship is restored, the financial need is met, or the person we love gets up from the hospital bed and comes home.

Those testimonies matter. I celebrate them. Over the years that is exactly what happened with my husband. Around 1995, he had a tear in the aorta of his heart, we saw the scans and doctors confirmed that surgery would be required. One last MRI before the open heart surgeons prepped to open his chest but the tear was gone, no surgery needed. God healed him supernaturally. But what about the testimony when the answer wasn’t the answer we prayed for? I am learning that this is a testimony too.

I Still Believe

Randolph and I both believe that God determines when life begins and when it ends. We believed there is an appointed time for each of us. I believed that before a cancer diagnosis entered our lives. I believed it while I was sitting beside hospital beds, talking with doctors, advocating for my husband, and watching his body change. And I believe it now. But believing does not mean I don’t hurt.

Faith has not insulated me from grief. Knowing that Randolph’s earthly suffering has ended does not mean that I don’t miss his physical presence. Believing in eternal life does not mean there isn’t an empty place beside me. I can trust God and still have questions. I can know where my husband is and still wish he were here. I can thank God for 46 years of love and shared life and still want another day. Faith and grief can occupy the same heart. I know because they are occupying mine.

When Prayer Doesn’t Change the Outcome

Sometimes we approach prayer as though faithfulness should guarantee the outcome we desire. But I am discovering again that prayer is not about convincing God to follow my plan. Prayer keeps me connected to God when His plan and mine are not the same. There were things I desperately wanted for Randolph. There were also things Randolph wanted for himself.

As his caregiver, one of the most important things I could do was make sure he was seen, heard, and that his wishes were respected. I couldn’t choose his journey for him. And ultimately, neither of us could determine how or when that journey would end. There comes a place in faith where we have to release what we cannot control. That doesn’t mean giving up. For me, it means giving over. There is a significant difference between the two. Giving up says, There is no hope. Giving over says, God, I cannot carry this, control this, or change this. I place it in Your hands. I have had to learn that lesson more than once.

Perhaps the Miracle Looked Different

I have thought about healing differently since my husband's death. We often think of healing as remaining here—disease gone, body restored, life continuing as we knew it.

That was certainly the healing I wanted. But my Christian faith tells me that this earthly body was never meant to be permanent. So perhaps I need to be careful about declaring that God did not answer simply because the answer did not look like the one I wanted. Randolph is no longer battling a disease that robs him of enjoying the things he loved to do.

He is no longer experiencing the limitations of a body that had become tired. His journey here ended.

And while my heart aches because I cannot see him, touch him, talk with him, or hear his voice in the way I once could, my hope rests in something greater than this present separation. Jesus said: “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions…”— John 14:1–2

Those words comfort me, they were Randolph's favorite scripture and I can still hear him citing them now. Jesus is the answer to my troubled heart and His death and resurrection is the source of my strength and hope for tomorrow.

Faith After the Funeral

The flowers eventually leave. The services end. Family and friends return home. The calls become less frequent. And then comes the quiet. That may be where faith becomes less about what we say we believe and more about what we are willing to live. I am still very early in this journey. I am not writing from the other side of grief. I don’t know that there even is an “other side” in the way we sometimes imagine it. I am writing from right here. Some days are easier than others. Some moments catch me by surprise. And I am learning that I do not have to pretend otherwise in order to demonstrate faith. My testimony today is not that I have figured grief out. It is much simpler: I still believe God.

I believed Him when Randolph was here. I believed Him when we received news we didn’t want. I believed Him as I cared for my husband. I believed Him when I had to release what I could not control. And I choose to believe Him now. Not because I got the answer I prayed for. But because my faith was never supposed to rest in the answer. My faith rests in God. And God gives us a choice, trust and believe or not.

So what happens to faith when you prayed—and the person you prayed for still died?

I can only answer for myself. It hurts. I grieve. I miss him. I sometimes wish the answer had been different. And still, I trust and believe.

Peace. Power. Purpose.

Bernice Tyler-Graddy

BTG Coaching & Consulting LLC