Faith, Fate and Karma

For as long as I live, I’ll never forget the day when there was a strange knock at the front door.

“Mr. Claude Danzas?”

“Yes,” I said tentatively as I looked at the two strange men in front of me. One had dark hair and the other, light brown. Both men were of medium build and in their late thirties. “And, who are you?”

The dark-haired man flashed an identity card in my face. “I’m Detective Meyer, and this is Detective Petersen,” he said.

I eyed both men suspiciously. “So, huh, what can I do for you?” I asked.

“It’s about your wife, sir,” Meyer replied.

“My wife,” I said, totally bewildered.

Meyer looked up. “I’m afraid so.” Suddenly, I realized something was wrong. “I’m sorry to tell you,” Meyer said, “but your wife was murdered this afternoon.”

I choked and my legs trembled. “What!” I stammered.

Petersen stepped forward. “Mr. Danzas, are you okay?”

“Yeah … yeah,” I mumbled as I felt the room spin.

“You should sit down,” Petersen urged. My legs wobbled as I stumbled toward the living room.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, sir,” Meyer continued in his monotonous voice, “but, this afternoon, as your wife left work, she was hijacked outside her office building. Just as she stopped at the exit, three men jumped her, and in the ensuing struggle, she was shot three times.”

I collapsed on the sofa. “Oh, my God,” I muttered. “But, why Mariella?”

Mariella was the most loving and generous person I had ever known. Nothing was ever too much trouble for her. She was always willing to please everyone. She was my life, and I loved and adored her. The thought of not being with her was too much to contemplate. I would have gladly given up everything I owned to have her back. All my material possessions, my sports car, my house, the holiday home, my embossed shirts, and my Armani suits were all worthless without her.

“Oh, God, why Mariella?” I screamed.

Every night, for months after her death, I yearned for her return. Without her, I felt alone and helpless. I’d often sit still for hours, gazing at the ocean, and although I missed her gentle voice, the sound of the waves soothed my soul.

Whenever I visited the local pastor and asked him to explain Mariella’s death, his reply was always the same. “It’s the will of God, my son.”

“But, if it’s the will of God,” I said mournfully, “Pastor, please explain to me what kind of God this is.”

“Have faith, my son. Trust in the Lord.” The pastor picked up a Bible and turned a few pages. “In Proverbs 3:5, it is written, ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.’” He closed the Bible and glanced at me. “I know it’s difficult to understand, but believe me, these things happen by the will of God. We must trust in Him.”

By the time I was thirty, I had suffered more hardships than most men endure in their entire life, and the pastor was telling me to trust in our Lord. I wanted to believe the pastor, but was rapidly losing my faith in God, who was supposed to be merciful and loving and not harmful and malicious. I was not satisfied with the pastor’s explanation, because of the series of traumatic events that had begun to haunt me. Since I was forced to flee the country of my birth, my life had been turned upside down. Until I met Mariella, all I knew was hardship and humiliation. Then, just when everything seemed so perfect and when least expected, disaster struck once again.