An earthquake let loose an avalanche from a nearby mountain, nearly wiping out the homes and businesses of a small community and killing thousands. But somehow, the boulders stopped within feet of the local church. It was deemed an act of God.
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The anger and frustration rose within me. “The real miracle,” I blurted out, “would have been if You had spared the thousands who died and not an empty building.”

Honesty with God comes from a lifetime of believing in, of praying and being faithful to God, but I would be lying if I said I never questioned the justice and mercy of God. I would be dishonest before God if I didn’t share my frustration with what often seems like God’s lack of interest in his children.

I’ve never questioned the existence of God, but I certainly do not pretend to understand God’s ways. I know I am not alone in this. We are only human, after all. Coming to terms with this kind of conflict is part of the process of faith, and it is put to the test during the worst of times, as when war or atrocity becomes a reality.

While the fighting is not yet at our doorsteps, the media now brings war into our homes daily. We see and hear the pain of those who are in death’s path. We watch bombs fall and homes go up in flames. We are appalled and heart broken and when we hear the number of civilian deaths we wonder if our prayers will ever be answered. We may even ask, “Where are you, God? Why are you allowing your innocent children to suffer such inhumanity?”

And perhaps there, in that word “inhumanity,” is an answer.  War is a human action, a choice, an evil that is a blot on human history throughout the ages, and yet it persists. Perhaps the real miracles are those we are now seeing on the television. The human miracles, the often-hidden stories of sacrifices people, once strangers, are making on behalf of others, the children of God being children of God. Beautiful stories, but not enough to make sense of so much death and horror.

Holocaust survivor and Nobel Peace Laureate Elie Wiesel experienced unspeakable atrocities which put a seemingly insurmountable distance between him and God. In his renowned book, “Night,” Wiesel writes honestly, “For the first time, I felt anger rising within me. Why should I sanctify His name? The Almighty, the eternal and terrible Master of the Universe, chose to be silent. What was there to thank Him for?”

Many years later, Wiesel would also share his reconciliation with God in a New York Times column, writing of what he once called his “wounded faith,” saying, “I now realize I never lost it, not even over there, during the darkest hours of my life. I don’t know why I kept on whispering my daily prayers, and those one reserved for the Sabbath, and for the holidays, but I did recite them, often with my father and, on Rosh ha-Shanah eve, with hundreds of inmates at Auschwitz.”

He admitted being haunted for a lifetime with the question, “Where were you, God of kindness, in Auschwitz?” Yet, he entreated God: “Let us make up: for the child in me, it is unbearable to be divorced from you so long.”

As I watch the horror unfold in the Ukraine, and see the innocent, worried faces of Ukrainian children, their voices raised to God and their hands clasped in prayer, I question my God of love. Yet, I continue to pray that God will see and hear the children, and that Elie Wiesel has God’s ear.

Mary Clifford Morrell is the author of “Things My Father Taught Me About Love” and “Let Go and Live: Reclaiming your life by releasing your emotional clutter.”