Then somebody did something to me. It doesn’t matter the details of what it was, but only to tell you that it was the kind of act, a terrible act of cruelty, that can crush lives beyond repair, that can cause horrible suffering and internal agony, that death sometimes seems like a welcoming option. And that something was done to me.

I was devastated. I couldn’t believe it. Where was God? Where was Jesus? How could this have happened to me? What have I done wrong? I started to doubt God’s love for me. My life fell apart. I lost almost everything I held dear. I felt like Job.

I spent a whole year being angry with the whole world, with every single injustice, plenty of which exist. I was raging. I was right in all my complaints, but nevertheless, it didn’t help being right a tiny bit. I wished I was wrong. I was angry with God, and still I wanted my relationship with Jesus back, the same sense of His Holy Presence in my home as before. I moved away from the town where I lived, but couldn’t find new roots… I didn’t hear the Holy Spirit very well either, and got plenty lost.  I was going down, but didn’t want to go down. I cried out to Jesus. I begged Him to pull me out.

I remember the day it started. I was deep in pain, feeling trapped in a deep chasm. And from what seemed like the bottom of that chasm, simply because there was nothing else left that I could do, I started praising my Heavenly Father from the bottom of my aching and scarred heart.

At first I heard nothing, but then I heard the Holy Spirit loud and clear, and it asked me a question. The question was: “Do you really believe that a heart that praises its Creator when it hits its lowest point can be anything but good?”

I knew that the answer was no.

“Do you really believe,” the Holy Spirit continued, “that a person who possesses a heart like that can end up a victim?”

I knew deep within my heart that the answer was no.