I’m Drowning, and I Don’t Know Where God Is

I’m doing everything I know to do. So why does it feel like the water keeps rising?

As much as I want to trust God, I am struggling with that.

My bike is still out of commission. I still don’t have a good job. I am still without a lawyer to represent me in my divorce.

And now I’m facing another situation I never expected to be dealing with.

Last week, I was trying to get in touch with my kids’ social worker. I emailed. I left a voicemail. I heard nothing until the following Monday, when I was told she would get back to me in a few days.

Today, she called.

She told me about the options available for my oldest daughter. She could sign an agreement that would potentially allow her to remain where she is for the foreseeable future and potentially receive support until she turns 23.

Based on what I am seeing and hearing, this could be a very good thing for her.

My second daughter may have more complications. Because of her age, the same agreement isn't currently available to her, which means she may have fewer options.

Then the worker brought up something I knew would eventually come up.

My American charges.

I didn't bring them up at the beginning of the conversation because I didn't see the need to. But when she asked, I was completely transparent.

I told her about everything I've done since returning to Canada.

I've participated in a support group for male victims of childhood sexual abuse. I've received counselling through that same agency. I've received counselling through the ministry that operates my home. I've worked. I've gone to church. I've stayed involved in my kids' lives.

I've spent the last year trying to rebuild myself and prove that I am not the same man who made those mistakes.

Apparently, that isn't enough.

The worker asked if I would be willing to have supervised visits.

Why would I be okay with that?

I made it clear that I want to cooperate with Children's Aid. I am willing to work with them. I am willing to do what is necessary for my children.

But cooperation does not mean giving away the farm.

I even told her that I would consider supervised visits with my younger two children if there was a clearly defined path toward getting off of supervision.

I need to know that this isn't a permanent sentence for something that happened years ago.

Because here is where I struggle.

I am not trying to pretend that what happened in 2022 didn't matter.

It did.

I made serious mistakes. I have spent a long time owning them. I have faced the consequences. I have sought help. I have changed things about myself that needed to change.

But what happened in 2022 happened in another country. It did not involve my children. More than four years have now passed. I have not been in legal trouble since. I have returned to Canada and spent that time trying to build a completely different life.

I am not asking anyone to erase my past.

I'm asking whether the person I have become since then is allowed to matter.

Because right now, it doesn't feel like it does.

The reality is that I feel crushed.

I stepped up when my ex fell short. When my kids sent me those pictures, I was heartbroken. I was angry. I thought that if I reported what was happening, there would be help.

There was.

Sort of.

But it didn't go the way I expected.

And now I find myself wondering how much I am actually allowed to do before my past becomes the answer to every question.

I went to Whitestone yesterday, almost immediately after the call from the social worker.

In hindsight, I probably wasn't in the best headspace to be there.

I was so rattled that I left the donuts I had bought for the meeting on the train. I normally don't do things like that.

Then someone I tend to tolerate started asking questions I wasn't prepared to answer. I made it pretty clear that I wasn't interested in the conversation.

I spoke with leadership about what was going on.

I was told that I'm always angry.

They're not wrong.

I'm angry.

But I'm also hurting.

I am doing what I am supposed to do, and I still feel like I am losing.

I was also told that I should consider taking three minimum-wage jobs.

I understand the point behind the advice. I do.

But I had to take a step back.

I have never been afraid of hard work.

I've worked hard my entire life.

But there is a difference between working hard and working myself into the ground for barely enough money to survive.

I decided to put a pin in that conversation.

I was far too angry to rationalize it, even if the advice was well-intentioned.

And that is where I am today.

I keep getting told that I need to press in.

Trust God.

Keep going.

Keep praying.

I am trying.

But right now, I am struggling.

I feel like my world is an indoor pool with no deck and high walls.

Someone keeps adding water to it while I am very clearly struggling to stay above the surface.

I call out for help, but either nobody is there or I'm told to keep treading water.

The water keeps rising.

I'm running out of time.

It keeps coming higher and higher, toward the ceiling.

I can see an access hatch above me.

I can see a way out.

But it's bolted shut.

So I keep swimming.

I keep treading water.

I keep calling for help.

But I'm getting tired.

And the water keeps rising.

I feel like I'm drowning.

And right now, I don't know where to turn.

This blog is anonymous for a reason.

Part of that is to protect my kids. It wouldn't be fair for me to identify them while writing about things that involve them.

But the bigger reason is that there are still people who are angry about things they know almost nothing about.

People can look at my past and decide they know who I am.

But I know who I was.

And I know how hard I've worked not to remain that person.

I've been told that I need to forgive myself.

I've been told by very strong Christians that, in the grand scheme of things, sin is sin. I've been reminded that God has already paid for my sin on the cross.

I believe that.

Most days, I'm okay.

But days like today are different.

Today, I'm not so sure.

I know what I'm supposed to say.

I know the Christian answer.

I know that God hasn't abandoned me.

I know that I'm supposed to trust Him.

But knowing something and feeling it are two very different things.

Right now, I don't feel Him.

I pray.

I ask other people to pray.

I reach out for help.

And sometimes it feels like there is nothing coming back.

Radio silence.

Two weeks ago, I reached out to a men's organization for help navigating some of what I'm dealing with, both emotionally and legally.

I followed up a week later.

I followed up again today.

Silence.

And I'm starting to feel a lot like I did around the Christmas holidays last year.  I keep having some recurring thoughts.

Maybe this is all for nothing.

Maybe my kids are better off without me.

Maybe all of this rebuilding has been for nothing.

Those are the thoughts that scare me.

Because I don't want to go back to who I was.

I don't want to quit.

I don't want to give up on my kids.

I just don't know what to do anymore.

Psalm 69 begins with a prayer that feels almost painfully familiar:

“Save me, O God, for the floodwaters are up to my neck.”

— Psalm 69:1, NLT

Then David says:

“Deeper and deeper I sink into the mire; I can’t find a foothold.”

— Psalm 69:2, NLT

I don't think I've ever read those verses and felt them quite like I do right now.

The floodwaters are up to my neck.

I'm struggling to find a foothold.

I'm looking for a way out, but I can't seem to find one.

And the hardest part is that I keep calling out for help and I don't hear an answer.

But David did something that I am still trying to do.

He called out to God.

Even when he was angry.

Even when he was desperate.

Even when he couldn't see the way out.

He still called out.

And maybe that's why I've been thinking about Sam Cooke's song, "A Change Is Gonna Come."

I've listened to that song countless times over the years, but today it hits differently.

There is something about it that captures where I am right now. It's not the sound of someone who has everything figured out. It's the sound of someone who has been through enough to be tired, who has every reason to wonder whether things will actually get better, and who is still holding onto the possibility that they will.

I don't know when things are going to change.

I don't know how they're going to change.

But I still want to believe that they will.

So that's what I'm doing.

I don't have some inspirational ending for you.

I don't have a neat Christian answer.

I don't know what God is doing right now.

I don't understand why He seems so silent.

But I'm still here.

I'm still praying.

I'm still asking.

I'm still reaching.

Maybe that's what faith looks like sometimes.

Maybe faith isn't always standing on solid ground with your hands raised in victory.

Maybe sometimes faith is treading water in the dark, convinced you're running out of strength, and still calling out to God anyway.

Right now, I feel like I'm drowning and nobody cares.

So I'm asking.

Help me, please.

Somebody point me in the right direction.