By Debra Weiss

“…He Himself has said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” – Hebrews 13:5

I stood in the unfamiliar room looking out through old ruffled curtains. They smelled like they had never been washed but somehow I didn’t care. I inhaled and couldn’t smell anything familiar, not our family dog, not the dirty socks my younger sister always hides under the couch, not the food we’d had for dinner.

Nothing felt familiar. Not the scratchy curtains or the mud brown carpet. Not the wood paneling on the walls or the door that had been taken off its hinges.

It’s so unfamiliar, I thought to myself. Unfamiliar. The word kept echoing in the empty room. Behind me I could hear my family moving from room to room of the house, examining closets and bathrooms.

We were in a large house off the beaten path, deep in a part of Tennessee I couldn’t pronounce much less find on a map. Months ago, my dad’s job had transferred him from sunny South Carolina to this…nothingness.

There were no streetlights or large super centers open twenty-four hours all day everyday. There were no nearby malls or doctor’s offices or bookstores. There was only nothingness. Trees, grass and a house plopped in the middle.

I tried not to think about the question that had been plaguing me for weeks, months if I were to be honest. The question that played a hundred times a day in my head. The one I tried to squelch each weekend my dad wasn’t able to make it home to see our family.

But standing there that moment, I could hear my parents talking to the real estate agent. They were making a bid for this awful, unfamiliar house. Something in me broke as I heard the realtor penning the details.

I blinked but it didn’t matter. The tears came anyway.

“Where are you, God?” I whispered in the stillness of the dark room. I stood sobbing silently for several minutes, numbly repeating my question until I felt a presence behind me.

My grandfather wrapped an arm around my shoulder and said nothing. I sniffed and tried to pull myself together.

After a moment, my grandfather spoke. His words were soft in the darkness, like he was carefully auditioning each word for the part before he spoke them. “I know you felt like God has left you. When the plant in Bristol closed down and I had to move, I was mad at God. I didn’t understand how he could move me. I felt like God had abandoned me.”

I was quiet. Was it possible someone else understood everything I felt? As I pondered this my grandfather opened his mouth again, “God never forsakes us. Never. No matter where we go or what happens.”

I wrapped my arm around his waist and squeezed tight, whispering my thanks to him. He gave me a hug and left the room so I could compose myself. I paused, searching for the words to tell God how I’d needed that reminder tonight, but couldn’t find any.

God…thank you, thank you for never leaving me…even when my fickle emotions said you’ve left. Thank you for always being near.