Can I Be Mad at God?

A few years ago, I was on a flight from LA to my home in Florida. I was still in my suit and had, for the first time ever, requested a window seat. I’m not a man whose stature affords him any measure of comfort in such a seat, but today I needed to be as isolated as possible, with my nose pressed against the window, so that my fellow passengers wouldn’t see me crying.

I had just attended the funeral of Danielle. She was 4. She had honey-colored ringlets of hair, a substantial collection of tutus, and was everything her parents could have wanted. One morning, Danny got sick. By the afternoon, she was dead. We were told it was some massive and unavoidable internal infection and that “it just happens sometimes.” That, of course, was not a good reason.