When You Feel Abandoned

Have you ever felt that God has left you?

Not in a theoretical sense. Not the kind of question that shows up in a classroom discussion or a late-night debate about faith and reason. I mean something much more personal than that—something that settles into your chest and refuses to leave.

Have you ever felt that God was absent when you needed Him the most?

You were desperate. You prayed. You cried out. You did what you were taught to do. And nothing seemed to happen.

For some, that moment comes with illness. Your own body begins to betray you, or the body of someone you love starts to fail. You pray for healing. You ask God to intervene. You plead for relief, for improvement, for even the smallest sign that heaven is paying attention. But the pain continues. The diagnosis doesn’t change. The future grows more uncertain, not less.

For others, it comes through work or school. A situation that slowly drains the life out of you. Conflict that never resolves. Pressure that never eases. You wake up already tired. You carry it home with you every night. You pray for God to open a door—any door—but it stays firmly shut.

For some, it is financial strain. You are doing everything you know how to do. Working hard. Being responsible. Trying to be faithful. And still the bills pile up. You pray for provision day after day, night after night. And instead of answers, you hear only silence.

And over time, a question begins to form. Not loudly. Not angrily. Quietly. Wearily.

What do you do when God is silent?

What do you do when you are suffering and heaven doesn’t seem to respond?

Most of us don’t say that out loud. Especially not in church. But the thoughts still come.

Maybe God is busy.

Maybe He’s distant.

Maybe He’s avoiding me.

And eventually—if the silence goes on long enough—another thought slips in, one we don’t want to admit even to ourselves.

Maybe He was never really there.

If you have ever thought that, you are not weak.

You are not broken.

You are not faithless.

You are human.

What makes seasons like this so difficult is not just the pain itself—it’s the contrast. When we read Scripture, especially the Old Testament, God often appears decisive, active, unmistakably present. Israel cries out, and God responds. They are trapped, and He delivers. They trust Him, and He intervenes.

And we read those stories and think, That’s wonderful for them… but what about me?

God’s silence has a way of making us feel small. Not just overlooked, but insignificant. As if we don’t matter enough to warrant His attention.

And the way we speak to ourselves becomes harsh.

Maybe I’m not important enough.

Maybe I don’t matter.

Maybe I’ve done something wrong.

Maybe God helps other people—but not me.

That may sound extreme, but listen carefully—those words are not modern inventions. They are biblical language.

Psalm 22 says, “I am a worm and not a man, scorned by men and despised by the people.”

That is not poetic exaggeration. That is the honest voice of someone who feels abandoned.

And when we feel that way, it doesn’t just hurt emotionally—it shakes our faith. Because we are Christians. We believe in God. We talk about trust and hope. We pray publicly. We encourage others. But when our own prayers go unanswered and suffering continues, we begin to wonder what kind of witness we are becoming.

People watch us. They see no miracle. No visible rescue. No dramatic intervention. And to them, faith begins to look foolish. Imaginary. Unproven.

There is a simple illustration that captures this feeling with painful accuracy.

A preschool teacher once taught her class a song about popcorn. The children crouched down on the floor and sang together. At certain moments in the song, they would jump up and “pop.” Soon the room was filled with laughter and popping children.

But one child stayed crouched on the floor.

The teacher noticed and asked, “Why aren’t you popping like the others?”

The child looked up and said, “I’m burning on the bottom of the pan.”

While the world pops and celebrates, some of us are burning.

Life goes on around us. People laugh. They make plans. They move forward. And we are stuck—hurting, waiting, wondering.

And we ask the question that won’t go away:

Where is God when this is happening?

Where is He when we need Him the most?

Surely He doesn’t expect us to face this alone. Surely the God who brought us into the world, who has sustained us from our first breath, does not repay trust with abandonment.

And yet, when suffering confronts us head-on, it feels overwhelming. Not abstract. Not distant. Immediate. Personal.

Psalm 22 describes it with frightening clarity. The psalmist speaks of being surrounded—bulls encircling him, lions roaring, enemies closing in. It is the language of someone who feels trapped, outnumbered, and exposed.