I believed in God from childhood—a quiet, comforting faith that had never been tested by time or hardship. Belief came easily when life smiled on me, when I could recognize God's goodness in the gifts He gave. Everything was simple until Thaïs's illness struck, scattering my ordered world like a dog knocking over carefully arranged pins. That day my horizon darkened. In an instant, my future turned the color of deepest misfortune. I stopped looking ahead. I stopped looking far for fear of losing myself. I lifted my eyes to heaven. And I searched for light.
In that trial, in the vertiginous climb of my own Himalaya, my faith in God became a lantern—or more precisely, a headlamp. The kind mountaineers strap around their heads, centered on the forehead, so they can see where their feet will fall and walk safely.
This lamp lets me light my path, drive back the suffocating darkness, and move forward with confidence. Its beam doesn't reach the summit. It casts light only on the ground ahead—step by step, day by day. Never further. The lamp teaches me to focus on only this one day, without anguish about what comes next. Yesterday was. Tomorrow will be. Only today exists.
Faith does not spare me suffering
A discouraged mother once said to me: "How I envy you. Your trial is easier because you have faith in God." I understood exactly what she meant. And yet… if only she knew how much I have suffered. Her pain has nothing to envy in mine.
When Thaïs died, I felt the fathomless grief of a mother losing the flesh of her flesh—believer or not. In the moment the cold earth covered Thaïs's beloved body, I knew darkness. I lived in shadow, as every mother does who cannot see her child again. Faith does not spare me suffering. It is not a cure-all, not the miraculous remedy for the ills of body and heart. Faith does not spare me any of the pain that is human. It simply stands before a cliff edge: despair.
Excerpt from Une Journée particulière by Anne-Dauphine Julliand
Les Arènes, May 2013, pp. 120–123