Dancing With Diavlo

This post was written in response to a writing prompt from Write On Edge. We were asked to write about hope remembering the algorithm taught to us by Marion Roach-Smith in her book The Memoir Project. To put it succinctly, here is the prompt:

This is a piece about (x), illustrated through (y).

So, for this week, we want the (x) to be hope.

Meaning:

This is a piece about hope, illustrated through (y).

What is the (y)? Only you know. You have that truth—those stories in you. Now share it with us.

Below is my story of hope illustrated through my yesterday. In my quest for constructive criticism for this particular post, I would like to ask if you feel that the hope is evident in this piece, or if you can only see it because the prompt was added.
 
Last night's dinner was delicious. I made, for the first time, Shrimp Fra Diavlo. I burned my arm with splattering oil when I put the shrimp in the pan. For the entire night my arm was on fire. My wrist glowed red and by the time I went to bed my flesh had browned as if it were charring as each minute passed. I had enjoyed the hot spices of my meal but felt as though fate mocked me in my devilish endeavor.

It was one of those days, you know the kind, where the world wants to shake you.

You see, before the the shrimp debacle I was watching the evening news. A story came on about a new treatment for cancer. I found it fascinating. My husband came into the room, sat beside me and was equally enthralled by the story.

As I sat and listened I realized something, There will be a cure. My mind reeled with this epiphany. I questioned myself, Will it be for all cancers, Nicole? Or just this brain cancer? All I could muster was those five words, There will be a cure.

I don't know if my husband saw my fascination, or was just awash with his own, but he started to tell me of another similar treatment he had heard about. As he spoke I could hear nothing but my five words swirling in my mind. Before I could stop myself I was in tears.

It was guilt.

I realized that at the beginning of the story some part of me wanted to find anything wrong with it. My mind wouldn't allow a cure. A cure wouldn't be fair. If my mother couldn't have one then how could I live knowing others could?

Then I remembered her suffering, her pain and her end. No one deserved that.

My husband didn't need to ask what made me cry, he knew it was thoughts of my mother, but I felt I needed to clarify, "They're going to cure this. And when they do that's going to be a hard day for me." It scared me to think that I must have felt this way for almost six years and I didn't consciously know it, but saying it out loud was such a great release.

The Enigma of My God

Today I wondered if it would be easier if I was an atheist.

I sat and thought, What if I didn't believe there was a higher power watching over me? And I wondered if that would make it easier for me to understand why some things happen the way that they do.

Today I got a phone call that informed me that my neighbor died. She was getting treated for cancer and died during her treatment. It was unexpected, it was unfair and I was stunned.

And then, just like each night is broken by the dawn and finds morning, I, in my sweet blissful life of waking sleep, with this one call, was broken and found my mourning again. I thought of the unexpected suddenness of this woman's death and couldn't help but relive the shock of losing my father. I thought of her disease, her treatment and even her shared first name and nearly drowned in the mourning over my mother. I thought of her husband, her daughters and felt the anguish for them and with them and I thought

why?
...Why?
    ...WHY does this continue to happen?

So I turned to who I always turn to in these moments when I am drowning in my tears and sorrow. I turned to God whom I know is always there for me and is always watching and listening and guiding me and I asked the unanswerable, Why?

Of course, there was no answer. So I decided to be a little more specific, God, why can't my mother be here on Wednesday to celebrate her 64th birthday? Why couldn't this other woman who I've lived across from my entire life at least have lived until hers? Why must they all leave so soon?

In some corner of my subconscious I heard whispers, It was their time... but I don't know if it is my own grasp of some semblance of sense in my insane world, or the Almighty answer.

I don't know.

The only three words that resonate any kind of truth:

I

don't 

know.

Which returns me to my original query - Would it be easier if I didn't believe? 

It's so far outside my reality it is difficult for me to conceive of what that actually means. The question arose in my mind, but I don't think there is any way for me to aptly answer it. The facts are the facts: I believe in God and no matter how much I am continually confused (and occasionally infuriated) by that which can be attributed to God's actions, I have been unable to un-believe. 

So, like everyone else on this Earth, I am pained by the suffering of others. I feel that if I had the power to do so, I would wipe it from the planet.

The God I believe in is all-powerful. He is forgiving, loving and all-knowing. As I carry this belief I carry the weight of believing that this God chooses to not wipe suffering from the planet. This is the greatest enigma in my life. This is the enigma of my God.