What’s With the Delay, God? We Could Really Use Some Help!

 I’m a Catholic, but I’m not religious. Or maybe I am—just in a way that would make both a priest and a pandit shake their heads in confusion. I kneel and pray to Jesus with the same sincerity as when I press my palms together and bow before Ganapati. I’ve stood in churches with tears in my eyes and sat through pujas with the same devotion. If there’s a God listening, I’m making sure He, She, or They get my message.

Around my neck, I wear a golden cross on a chain and a brown scapular. A symbol of faith, tradition, and, in my case, a little bit of superstition. If layering faiths worked for my ancestors—who probably had a rosary in one pocket and a coconut for an offering in the other—then why should I be any different?

But faith is a funny thing. It’s easy to believe in miracles when you’re praying for a job, a house, or a good monsoon. But what about when you’re praying for something bigger? What about when you’re kneeling on the cold floor at 3 a.m., whispering, “God, are you there? Do you see what’s happening? Do you see my Alka?”

Alka, my love, my best friend, my everything. The one who made life feel like a never-ending adventure. The one who could handle the chaos of advertising deadlines and still have the energy to drag me out for a Puneri misal binge after work. She’s the one who kept me balanced when I was lost in newsprint and deadlines, reminding me that life wasn’t just about the next big scoop but also about laughter, about love.

And then, one day, life changed.

It’s been nearly four years since she fell ill. Since the strong, vibrant woman I married became trapped in a body that no longer listens to her. Since our home became a world of medicines, doctors, and prayers. Since I became her caregiver, and she became my reason to beg the heavens for a miracle.

The once beautiful, bright-eyed, fastidious dresser who loved clothes, jewelry, and makeup is now indifferent. The woman who almost had OCD about cleanliness, about the way she looked, about how our home was kept—she doesn’t care anymore. I look at her sitting in her wheelchair, unkempt hair, wearing my old tees and nightdresses, and I silently die each time.

Is God punishing us? Is Alka, pure in thought and deed, suffering for my sins of the past? Hey Jesus, you are benevolent. I don’t think you punish anyone. So what’s with the delay? Why is she still in pain?

And yet, despite everything, I pray. I pray because hope is the only thing I have left. I pray because I want to see her smile again, to hear her laughter fill our quiet home. I pray because if I stop, I’m afraid the silence will swallow me whole.

We are almost 70 now. I don’t know how much time we have left. But if God is listening—whether He’s in a church, a temple, or somewhere beyond—I just want Him to know this: We’re still here. We’re still fighting. And we could really use some help