When God Doesn’t Answer the Way You Expected

“Just breathe,” I told myself.

“Keep running. Don’t lose him, Melody.” 

He was so fast and the sharp cramp in my side was reminding me that I was not. 

He had run before, though it wasn’t his typical response when he lost emotional control. But, on occasion the switch would flip and he would go from fight to flight. Our neighborhood was very self-contained and thankfully, that had provided a natural barrier between him and the surrounding area that usually kept him contained. 

But not this time. He had run across the busy street at the front of the neighborhood and I had no idea where he was going… and the even scarier realization, neither did he. 

He had come unglued. The previous day at church someone told him he was a bad kid and it sent him spiraling… and I spent the last 24 hours trying to pick up the pieces of his shattered sense of identity. I couldn’t decide if I needed to go to the ER or if I could handle it myself. 

I couldn’t. I know that now. 

But after 24 hours of his unhinged behavior, I was losing it, too. I said something that wasn’t phrased well. I’m sure I didn’t mean it the way he took it but that didn’t matter now. He bolted out the front door. 

I went after him.

In my haste, I hadn’t grabbed my phone so I couldn’t clue my husband in on what had happened. I did grab my two year old, his baby brother and best friend in the world. He would do anything for his baby brother and I thought maybe he was the best possibility of breaking through the raging adrenaline to get him back into his right mind. It was a good thought, but he wouldn’t let us get close enough to try. 

“Shoot.” I watched him run across four lanes of traffic in bare feet and my heart stopped. It wasn’t rush hour and there weren’t many cars but a nine year old, even in his right mind, wasn’t well equipped with the mindfulness to cross a road that big. 

Panicking, I looked over my shoulder. A momentary pang of gratitude and relief swept through me when I saw my husband had followed us and was about 50 yards up the road. I ran my toddler back to him.

“Go get the car. Follow me across the street. I’ll go after him…. please hurry.” 

I took off running at top speed. 

Sweat poured down my back. This was Houston in July. Running anywhere at any time of day was an uncomfortable proposition. But this was Houston and the safety factor varies wildly from one block to the next. I couldn’t lose him or I’d never forgive myself.

I pushed faster. This neighborhood was a maze and I didn’t know which street to take. 

Sprinting deeper into the neighborhood, I caught a glimpse. By the grace of God, he had run straight down the main road. I could see him in the distance. He’d gotten a large head start and wasn’t slowing down. 

As I pounded the street, I found my flip flops were a very poor choice of footwear. I wasn’t expecting an olympic sprint when I followed him out the door. My lungs burned as my mind screams at the Lord. 

“WHERE ARE YOU? How is this my life? Why is my son running away from me? Why doesn’t his mind work? Why can’t I figure him out? Why haven’t you healed him?”

I’m a pastor’s wife. When my husband and I started dating, he wanted to be a pastor. And I also knew he really wanted to adopt. I loved those things about him, but also understood the weight of what both of those held on our future. The difficult role of being in ministry and raising a family being observed by a church community was very daunting. I so admired the various women who were married to the pastors of the churches I attended over my childhood and young adult years. They were so poised, gracious, and kind. If I had the ability to appreciate humor in this moment, I would have laughed picturing any of them frantically sprinting down the road after their kid. I doubt any congregant would accuse me of poise or graciousness at this moment.

There was nothing poised about my parenting experience. I intercepted his “meltdowns” almost daily. Sometimes they passed in moments and sometimes it took well over an hour. What were essentially emotional seizures, random times where his amygdala would completely overwhelm his frontal lobe and send him spiraling, there was no bringing him out once he lost control. You just had to ride it out, minimize the damage as much as possible. 

That’s what made moments like this so difficult. There was no formula. No parenting trick. No mental health hack. No verse I could quote that would instantly calm his nervous system. No amount of reasoning could reach him once he crossed that invisible line.

And maybe that was part of what made me so angry with God.

I didn’t want a theological or theoretical answer. I needed a practical answer. I needed Him to fix it.

I wanted healing. I wanted intervention. I wanted my son to stop running from and fighting the people who loved him most.

Instead, all I seemed to get was silence. (From God, not my son.)

At least that’s what I thought.

“Jesus, I need you right now!” I screamed at the sky.

Of all the times I’d needed him to show up (which were frequent!), this time was absolutely it. I was about to expire and he was showing no sign of slowing down. 

My husband pulled up in our minivan at just that moment. One small miracle! I jumped in and we took off again after him. 

A ways up the road, he finally ran out of fuel and collapsed in a front yard on the thick summer grass, completely exhausted. I jumped out of the van, ran over, and sat next to him. I wanted to wrap him in my arms and tell him he was safe but also fearing the possibility of triggering some other instinct to self-protect, I opted for rubbing his back, and quietly telling him he was ok. He was safe. I was here to help. 

I felt so broken. So overwhelmed. So hopeless. If I had the strength to cry, I would have. Instead I just sat, breathed, and ached from my heart to my hamstrings.

The front door opened and a man stuck his head out, 

“Uhhh, is everything ok?”

I was too exhausted to feel embarrassed, but I fully understood how strange this must look. When we were in public and he was struggling, the transracial nature of our adoption made me painfully aware of how these episodes could be interpreted wrongly.

“We’re ok.” I didn’t know how to explain what was going on simply and quickly so I used language that I thought best described the situation that most people could relate with. “He’s having a panic attack and we’re trying to get him calm.” If only it were that simple, but he seemed to accept the explanation and went back inside. 

Zach got out of the driver’s side of the minivan and stood at a distance, as if getting too close might trigger another flight episode. My daughter poked her head around the back seat, her eyes full of worry. She desperately wanted to check on her brother but was too nervous to move. My toddler sat in his car seat looking like he wanted to cry but didn’t dare to. 

Before I could ask myself what the next move should be, the door to the house opened again. A woman, about my age, emerged followed by an older woman and two young elementary aged kids. 

The woman smiled compassionately at my son and said, 

“My husband told me you were having a rough time. When I have panic attacks, I know of two things that help me. A glass of water and puppy snuggles!” 

She opened her arms and we saw she was cradling the tiniest little puppy I had ever seen. He was small enough to hold in one hand. Eyes wide, my boy accepted the sweet bundle she handed him, while the other lady handed him a tall glass of water. 

He lit up and ever so gently cradled the tiny pup in his hands. A lump in my throat rendered me speechless and tears blurred my vision. 

“Oh my gosh, thank you…” was all I managed to whisper. The rest of my crew crowded around my son, still sitting on the grass, to look at the small wonder in his arms.

They stood around us and talked while my son soaked up all the goodness that only a puppy can bring. Pretty soon, he was smiling and his anxiety melting away.

God did in a few seconds through this kind and caring family what I had been unable to do for the last 24 hours. 

Looking back, I realize God answered my desperate prayer in a way that only He could construct.

He just didn’t answer it the way I had expected.

He didn’t stop my son from running or suddenly calm his mind.

He didn’t part the clouds and explain why our family carried this burden.

Instead, He led us in the chaos… to a front yard with a family we’d never met, a cup of water, and a tiny puppy.

He met us through ordinary people carrying extraordinary kindness.

As I sprinted through that neighborhood, all I could see was what God wasn’t doing.

He wasn’t stopping my son.

He wasn’t healing his mind.

He wasn’t answering the thousand questions I had been asking for years.

What I couldn’t see was what He was already doing ahead of me.

There was a family sitting inside a house several streets away who would meet us with compassion instead of judgment who had a tiny puppy with the ability to put a smile back on my son’s face. 

I didn’t know this or could possibly expect it.

I didn’t know that God was already preparing provision while I was still praying for rescue.

Word choice in these verses is key. God says “when” we go through the storms. Not “if.” Not “in case.” The storms will come. He knows it. They beat and howl. They burn and flood. There will be destruction. It will be harder than we ever imagined. And we will be ok. 

I can handle the “when” because of my “why.” Because He is the Lord my God. He is in it with me. He is wholly present. And that makes all the difference. 

Years later, I still remember how far we ran. Ironically, after this incident, I took up running (maybe subconsciously to be better prepared for the next time he ran) and I run in this neighborhood frequently. I remember the house and I still struggle with tears every time I run by it. 

I remember the kindness of those strangers. But, most of all, I remember realizing that God had been there all along. Not in the way I thought. Not in the way I would have chosen.

But in the way I desperately needed.

I asked Him to stop the storm. Instead, He met me in the middle of it. And that makes all the difference.

And I’ve discovered that’s often how God works. We cry out for rescue, and sometimes He sends strength. We beg for answers, and He gives presence. We ask Him to change the circumstance, and He surrounds us with grace enough to walk through it.

He may not always show up the way we expect. But He always shows up.