STT. Brielle’s Mother Breaks Silence After Her Daughter’s Death, Admitting Anger at God Amid Overwhelming Grief

God and she were in a fight.

Not the kind with shouting or slammed doors, but the kind that lives deep in the chest, where breath feels heavy and silence screams louder than words.

She was a mother.

A mother who had been asked to give something no parent should ever have to surrender.

And she was angry.

Angry in a way that felt dangerous, because it was aimed at the One she had trusted her whole life.

She did not arrive at this anger suddenly.

It came slowly, like water rising in a room you do not notice flooding until it reaches your knees.

At first, there was disbelief.

Then confusion.

Then a pain so sharp it fractured her sense of reality.

And finally, anger—raw, unfiltered, and desperate for somewhere to land.

People around her spoke gently, carefully choosing words meant to protect her faith.

They told her God was good.

They told her there was a plan.

They told her she should not be mad at Him.

But grief does not listen to theology.

Grief does not respond to explanations.

Grief demands space to exist without being corrected.

She did not need a sermon.

She did not need to be reminded that God is good “all the time.”

She needed somewhere to put the pain.

The pain of waking up and remembering.

The pain of nights that stretched endlessly, where silence pressed against her ears like weight.

The pain of loving a child who was no longer there to be held.

Her heart felt like a house after a fire.

Standing, but ruined.

Familiar, but unlivable.

She still believed in God, which somehow made the hurt worse.

Because belief meant she had expectations.

And those expectations had been shattered.

She felt betrayed by the same hands she once trusted to protect what mattered most.

She argued with God in the quiet hours.

Not with eloquent prayers, but with sobs, accusations, and questions that had no answers.

Why my child.

Why now.

Why ask this of me.

She imagined God listening.

She imagined Him silent.

And that silence hurt more than words ever could.

Then Sunday came.

She almost did not go to church.

The idea of stepping into a place filled with joy felt unbearable.

But habit carried her there.

Muscle memory.

Obedience without strength.

She walked through the doors and was immediately surrounded by families.

Parents sitting shoulder to shoulder.

Children fidgeting beside them.

Hands held.

Heads bowed together.

The choir began to sing “Joy to the World.”

Red and green filled the room.

Smiles.

Warmth.

Celebration.

“The most wonderful time of the year.”

She sat down in the pew and felt hollow.

Not sad in a way that tears could fix, but empty beyond description.

As if something essential had been carved out of her and left behind.

She realized, with terrifying clarity, that she would never be whole on this earth again.

Life would continue.

She would breathe, eat, speak, and smile when required.

But wholeness had ended.

Something eternal had been broken.

The song continued, but she could not sing.

Her voice stayed trapped in her chest.

She stared ahead, feeling like an outsider in a place she once called home.

Then another song came to her mind.

Not one being sung aloud, but one whispered somewhere deeper.

“O come, all you unfaithful.”

“Come, weak and unstable.”

“Come, know you are not alone.”

The words landed differently.

They did not demand joy.

They did not require strength.

They did not pretend everything was fine.

They invited the broken.

The weak.

The angry.

The unfaithful.

They invited her.

For the first time in weeks, she felt something loosen inside her chest.

Not peace.

Not healing.

But permission.

Permission to come as she was.

She thought about how she treated her own children when they were angry with her.

She never pushed them away.

She never demanded calm before comfort.

She never required understanding before love.

When her children were hurt, she pulled them closer.

She listened.

She held them while they cried.

She tried to understand where the pain came from.

And only later—much later—did she try to explain what they could not yet comprehend.

She wondered if God was like that.

Not the distant judge she imagined in her anger, but the parent she herself tried to be.

A parent who could handle rage.

Who could withstand accusation.

Who did not fear questions.

A parent big enough to absorb her anger without withdrawing His love.

Maybe God was not offended by her fight.

Maybe He was sitting beside her in it.

Letting her cry.

Letting her rage.

Letting her be human.

She realized something slowly, carefully, as one might touch a wound to see if it still hurts.

Her anger did not mean she had stopped believing.

It meant she still cared.

It meant the relationship was real enough to hurt.

God had given her an invitation.

Not to understand.

Not to explain.

But to come.

Come broken.

Come weak.

Come unfaithful.

Come angry.

Come grieving.

He was a big God.

Big enough for her questions.

Big enough for her silence.

Big enough for her fury.

Big enough to hold her tighter, even while they were fighting.

She did not leave the church healed.

She did not leave with answers.

But she left knowing this:

She did not have to choose between grief and faith.

She could carry both.

And for now, that was enough.