Father Lord, WHY ?

Dear God,

You know how some conversations sneak up on you like a blindside, yes?… Humm, life! That was me the other day.

I was in the middle of a random afternoon when my phone buzzed. It was a message from a young lady who follows my blog on the letters I write to you. (Bless her soul. It’s usually exhilarating for me to meet people who have read my book or who follow the blogs. They clearly have reading taste.) (Laughs aloud, bragging right, my Lord!). Anyway, she asked to meet. I said yes. I should’ve braced myself.

The first thing she said was, “I don’t think God exists.”

Hiaan.

Let me be honest with you, Dad, I’m not sure what I was expecting, (maybe a testimony, a little “God has been so good” remix), but certainly not someone who sounded like she was two seconds away from slapping heaven itself. A full-blown Gen Z (23/24ish), with all the trappings, on a collision course with You. Yeah-kpa!

Now, I’ve had my own shouting matches with You. Yep, you know that now. But hearing it from someone else? Whew. I zipped my judgmental mind back into my handbag and put on my best I’m-listening smile.

“I’m so angry with Him,” she said, practically spitting the words.

I almost laughed, (seriously Dad, not out of mockery, but that kind of knowing laugh that says, “Girl, pull up a chair, join the line. You’re not alone.”). Honestly, Lord, you really do have a way of making people want to throw their Bibles across the room sometimes. (And no, I’m not admitting that I’ve done that. But let’s not lie to ourselves here, I have been tempted)

So, I asked gently, “What happened?”

She sighed and started. “My twin sister and I went to a birthday party…”

Then she stopped.

Long pause. The kind that makes you wonder if you should offer tissue or a glass of wine. Her face looked like a vivid painting of pain—confused lines, twisted emotions. (This ain’t gonna be easy, I sighed). I waited.

She finally went on. Their mum had warned them about parties, drilled the Ten Commandments into their bones, and made them promise never to drink. Especially not drive under the influence. This woman, their mother, was the prayer warrior kind, (the ones that will fast till angels probably beg them to eat, oil every doorpost, sprinkling olive oil on every, every), and she raised them by the book. Yes, your good book, to be specific).

At the party, it was a free-for-all. Drugs, Drinks, Drags (The 3-D’s), the modern youth’s new trinity. But these two girls, the twins, stood firm. “We only had Sprite,” she said, her eyes watering. “We wanted to honour our faith.”

You know this is where it turns, right? Where you have to add “But” ….

The party ended and they entered their car to go home. They could both drive and her twin offered to drive so she can be with her best friend at the back who was a bit out of it. They had decided to drive two of their friends’ home—friends who had indulged just enough to get themselves tipsy. (Lightheaded yet adventurous enough to risk it). These girls were doing the right thing. Good Samaritans in skinny jeans. Good girls from a good home with a good heart.

But then—bam.

Crash. Flip. Screams. Silence.

She described it like watching an action movie from underwater. She remembered the car flying (it wasn’t, but you try telling that to someone mid-air), doors swinging open, bodies flung like ragdolls. Blood. So much blood.

“I could hear sirens whirling loudly everywhere. I also believed I heard someone say, “The driver who caused the crash was drunk.” What Crash? Who crashed?”, she said slowly, very slowly.

Not her. Not her sister. Not their friends. But someone else. Someone who made a different choice. Someone who clearly never sat through a mother’s “thou shalt not drink and drive” sermons. Someone who veered off his lane and crash-landed on them.

And suddenly, she was upside down, hanging by her seatbelt, blood dripping from her nose into her mouth, pain everywhere. Then she heard it: “The two girls are already dead. Rush the rest to the hospital before we lose them too, they are losing a lot of blood.”

Two girls? There were four of them in the car…… three girls and a boy!

She said her heart stopped.

She called You, Dad. In that moment of desperation, she called You—not the way people pray before meals, but the way a drowning person reaches for the last bit of air. She reminded You of their choices. How they honoured You, even when everyone else mocked them. She begged You to save them. She pleaded.

Then… darkness.

When she woke up, days had passed.

Her twin sister? Dead.

Her best friend? Dead.

The other boy? Half-Dead. Breathing, but that’s about it. A vegetable, she said. Just there. Existing.

And her? Alive. Broken. Full of anger and rage. But alive.

 

And this, dear God, is where she turned to me with the kind of rage only a grieving soul can muster and asked, “Why did He let this happen?”

I had no answer. (Holy Spirit, just stay on your own lane, please. And before You start nudging me with words, no, “His ways are not our ways” didn’t seem like the right thing to say here. Leave me.)

She continued. “The man who hit us, did not get a scratch. A full-fledged adult with family, Drunk and Driving! He’s walking around today. Maybe he will serve a time or two. And Bingo! He is Free. Forgotten! That’s the irony of it all. All the boys and girls that indulged in that party got home good. Everyone at the party, both the good, the bad and the ugly, lived. But my sister, who never broke a rule, who prayed, who stood up for her beliefs… she’s gone. Why? Why would God allow that?”

And here’s the thing, Dad, I’ve asked those same questions many times before. Maybe not in the same words, but with the same broken heart. Why do good people suffer? Why do sincere heartfelt prayers sometimes feel like echoes? Why does it feel like bad people win and good people get buried?

Hmmm.

She said her mum hasn’t been the same since. The light in her eyes? Dimmed. The joy in her prayers? Drowned. “We did everything right,” she kept repeating. “Everything.”

And in that moment, God, I honestly didn’t know what to say. I wanted to say You’re good. That You have a plan. That You’re working all things out. But the words just got stuck, my voice betrayed me. Not a sound.

So instead of trying to force the words, I just held her hand. That’s all I could do. Because sometimes, Lord, people don’t need sermons. They need silence. They need space to hurt. To grief. To scream. To throw questions into the sky and not be forced to hear immediate answers.

But even if I could, I decided that I’m not stepping in to fix this and be Your PR manager. You see, this time, Lord, you really do have some explaining to do and you’ll have to do the explaining Yourself. The floor is Yours. Oya, answer the girl. Why? Why did you allow it?

(No, no, no, don’t look at me like that. I am not the 1st person to deny you. Peter did it three times few days ago. You didn’t eye him; you even built your church on top his head. Don’t eye me oh. I was not there when the car crashed. I am just the storyteller. Carry your cross cheerfully. Explain. Maka why?)

As for me? To your tents, oh Israel. I’m stepping out for a bit, I believe I heard someone call my name outside. (The way this girl is hurting, she can land the slap meant for you on my face). But I’ll be back. You know I always come back, right?

This is your daughter, l

oving you from a distance, but checking in.