THE GOD EVERY ONE HEARD, BUT I DIDN'T.

I prayed and longed for a voice to whisper, "I'm with you, Melody. I'm real." Countless nights, I cried, hoping to be spoken to in a way I would understand. I wanted to dream of the Creator. I wanted an encounter. I didn't care if it seemed meaningless to anyone else. I just wanted a personal experience with Jesus. Not the Jesus of my parents. Not the Jesus of my pastor. A personal encounter. The kind so many people talked about. The kind people testified about. The kind they spoke of with certainty.But why was mine different? I grew up in a religious home, with my entire family deeply embedded in religion. I woke up to fasting and prayers, morning devotions, midweek services, choir practices, Friday night vigils, children's camps, youth camps, conventions, and every church activity in between. Yet it always felt like I was floating. Like I was worshipping a being who was slow to respond. A being who seemed to require endless worship before lifting a finger. While wrestling with this, I watched people pour out their hearts to this God. My parents never missed a church activity. They were always present. Always serving. Always supporting the church. And before anyone rushes to say, "Going to church doesn't mean being at peace with God," hear me out. My mother gave her life to Christ at eleven. My father did the same at twenty-three. They both dedicated their youth, their time, their energy, and their lives to this God. But what happened? Those were the questions I constantly asked myself. In April 2025, I developed a serious chest pain. It was intense. I took Holy Communion. I prayed. I fasted. I read my Bible while crying out to the Creator I believed in and had faith in. I begged for relief. I begged for comfort. I begged for something. At some point, it felt like I was talking to myself. Like I was sitting alone in a room, speaking into an empty space. The chest pain kept getting worse. Am I paying for a sin I know nothing about? That question followed me everywhere. Then I'd go on TikTok and watch people talk about God being a "girl dad." And I would wonder:Am I doing something differently? Does the Creator not see me the way He sees them?Or does He simply have favorites? At some point, my desire to remain in the Creator's good books started fading. Not because I wanted to rebel. Not because I hated God. But because I was tired. Tired of reaching. Tired of asking. Tired of waiting. The religious people I met would often say: "He's knocking at the door of your heart." "He loves you." "He cares for you." "He sees everything." And I always found myself asking:Did the Creator tell you that? Why speak for a God who supposedly has access to every person He created? Why speak on behalf of the Creator more than He speaks for Himself? If He can speak through dreams, visions, prophets, burning bushes, donkeys, and whispers, why does He remain silent for some of us? That question stayed with me.It still does. And I know what many people will say after reading this. They will ask if I left because of a test. Because of the chest pain. Because my prayers were not answered the way I wanted.Maybe. But I keep returning to the same question: Why would a Creator who loves His creation require suffering as proof of their love? Why is the burden always on me to understand Him? To trust Him.To wait.To believe. To explain away every silence and every unanswered prayer. Why must I spend my life trying to understand the Creator, while never feeling understood by Him? For years, I reached. I prayed. I fasted. I cried. I waited for something that felt personal. Not a sermon.Not a testimony. Not someone else's encounter. Mine.Just once, I wanted to feel like the God everyone spoke about was speaking to me too. Maybe I was asking for too much. Maybe everyone else found something I couldn't. Or maybe there are answers waiting somewhere beyond my understanding. I don't know. What I do know is that I did not begin questioning because I hated God. I questioned because I wanted Him. I wanted certainty. I wanted a relationship. I wanted a conversation. Instead, I found myself speaking into a silence so vast that, after a while, I could no longer tell whether I was waiting for a response or mourning the absence of one. And perhaps that is the question I will carry for the rest of my life: Not whether God exists. But why His silence felt louder than everything I was ever told about His love.

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