I was pretty cocky after I survived such a close brush with death. It wasn't the first time I shook hands with the Grim Reaper, but it was the first time I shook hands with the Grim Reaper and still had the audacity to look at the Christian faith with a tremendously critical eye. I credited myself and my family way more than I credited God for my healing, and I wasn't about to give God the credit He truly deserved unless He could prove Himself, without a shadow of a doubt, that He existed. 

I had a lot of questions for God, most of which have remained unanswered. I wanted to know what the point of my infection was if I ultimately ended up in the same place. As soon as I was Psuedomonas-free, I went back to the same school as before, which still had problems with water leaks and mold throughout the building. I remembered a prayer I'd prayed months before, begging God to get me to a better school, and I thought He answered it! I thought He promised me in a tiny, quiet thought, "You will get to a better place soon."

So far, I was right back where I started in 11th grade. God hadn't answered His promise, and I didn't have any faith that He ever would. I was more of an atheist than a Christian, and my faith seemed to shrink every day. 

I used memes and dark humor to cope with my pain, instead of prayer and faith. I masked my worries and fears behind a smile so my peers, teachers, and family members couldn't tell I was still suffering. I may've been free from Pseudomonas, but I wasn't free from my inner demons who seemed to have been empowered by my illness. My humor got so dark at one point that I scared myself with the things I could laugh at. I was worried I was becoming a nihilist, which, looking back, I suppose I was. My peers fed into my dark-humored nihilism by laughing at the same things I did, and sharing the same memes over social media as I was. 

As I went through the first month of school after Christmas break, I started feeling sick again. My illness got progressively worse, though I desperately tried to hide it using the same tactics I used to hide my anxiety. Unfortunately, I couldn't hide my pale, sunken face, the dark bags that formed under my eyes, or my exhaustion each time I climbed the stairs to my upstairs classes. My peers noticed my condition, and pestered me for information. I was flattered that so many people were concerned about me, but I told them not to worry. Illness was normal for me. It was just a CF thing. But, I knew that was a lie. What I was experiencing was anything but normal. 

When a severely productive cough settled in, I knew, right away, that I was infected again. I suspected it was Pseudomonas, but the only way to find out was to get more throat swabs taken and cultured, which would take days for the results to come back. My sinuses also swelled up, and my face was sore to the touch. I didn't want to admit that I was sick with the same damn infection again, but I had to. 

My mom made me stay home from school at the start of February. As much as I denied it and tried to downplay my illness, my mom could tell I was sick. Not only was my appearance disheveled, but when I refused to acknowledge I was as pale as the snow outside, my mom poked at my cheek by my nose, and I yelped in pain as I lurched away from her as if I'd been slapped. I finally stopped trying to deny the obvious, and cried myself to sleep. I was right back where I started. I was terrified, but I was also pissed. I was pissed at Cystic Fibrosis. I was pissed at God. But most of all, I was pissed at myself, and cursed myself for being dumb enough to return to school, knowing they had mold in the vents! 

The next morning, I woke up and called the only person I knew who might be able to help me process my feelings. I called my grandpa Lyle to talk about God and theology, and how to fit them into my current predicament. My grandpa was gentle and carefully chose his words. At first, he told me that I wasn't as screwed as I thought I was. Sure, the situation was far from good, but at least I had access to medication that proved to work the first time, so I could trust that it would execute its job again. I wasn't going to die. I was going to get very sick, but I wasn't at death's door. 

Then, my grandpa told me, as gently as possible, that he believed there was a lesson for me to learn, and God was using my suffering to teach it. I wasn't too offended by my grandpa's idea, but it was still pretty offensive between me and God. Why would a supposedly all-good, all-powerful, all-knowing God allow me to endure such suffering? Couldn't He just teach me a lesson without putting me through hell? What was the point of torturing and traumatizing me with my crippling health condition? Surely, a God like the One the bible described wouldn't do such a thing to me. I voiced these concerns over the phone, and towards the end of our long discussion, my grandpa suggested I read the book of Job to see if it changed my perspective. 

I read the entire book of Job in just under an hour. I read it slowly and carefully, so I could digest every ounce of information the biblical book had to offer. At first, I understood that the book of Job was basically a story of God and Satan making a bet. It sounded like Job was God's favorite, and Satan wanted to see if he could pull Job away from Him. God agreed to test Job's faith, by taking everything he had, to see if Job would curse God or if he would continue to worship God as faithfully as he did when he was so wealthy. I really related to the story already at first, but it failed to answer any of my questions. I refused to believe God was using me as a pawn in His silly bets with the devil. But, at the same time, the book of Job made it seem like I was, and I finished reading Job even more angry and upset at God. 

Still, I remained skeptical of my own conclusion. When I thought about it, my conclusion seemed really immature, especially since I came to the conclusion before I even finished reading Job. Perhaps I just needed some time to work it out, and hopefully come to a different conclusion. Maybe then, I wouldn't be so pissed at God. 

I called my grandpa and told him what I thought about Job, and he told me I just had a very naive, surface-level understanding of Job. The book of Job was not about God and the devil making a bet at Job's expense. Job was a very proud, self-righteous man, which was apparent when he lost everything, and instead of cursing God, he cursed himself and wished he was never born. Job never got mad at God. Instead, he got mad at himself, and worked harder to please God to get his stuff back. I was partially in that same boat, but I was more upset at God than I was at myself. I did get big-headed when I beat Pseudomonas the first time, but that was because I thought I'd outsmarted Pseudomonas myself, and God had nothing to do with it. Job and I had different reasons and reactions to our situations, but the core of our situations was the same. We were both suffering tremendously, and we both misunderstood the point of our suffering, as well as the point of having faith. 

My grandpa told me to read Job again, and again, and again, until I came to a different conclusion about it. It would give me something to chew on other than my illness, and hopefully I'd mature in the faith, and come back to God. Maybe, in the end, I'd at least have a slight understanding of the point of my suffering, and understand that God wasn't deliberately harming me for fun.