Why does God allow Suffering?

Chike has a question for y’all.

Christ in the desert (Wikipedia)

“Why God, why?” Chike asked in tears "First my wife and now my daughter, why?" ‎ ‎ ‎ Who can blame Chike? he lost his 4 year old daughter to stage 4 cancer, she was done with her chemotherapy and had shown hopes of recovery the week before, the doctor assured him she would make a speedy recovery. ‎ “Why am I crying and shouting in vain to the brutal silence?” he thought. ‎ ‎ “No, no!, He definitely does hear me, I believe, no, I know it. He answered mama nkechi (the barren) 3 weeks ago, He has answered many people many times, why is my own case now different ?, why is it when I need him most that he decided he wasn’t going to answer me?” ‎ ‎ Existential dread, he hated being, he hated this desolate place. Life is empty without his Ada, she was gone and would never return to him. ‎

‎St Jude Catholic Church was quieter than Chike remembered. ‎ ‎He sat at the back as always, close to the exit, as if he no longer belonged inside anything that lasted. ‎ ‎The Mass continued — familiar prayers, familiar rhythms — but they no longer reached him. They passed through him like air through an empty room. ‎ ‎When the priest spoke about trusting God in suffering, something inside Chike tightened. Not anger at first—just pressure. ‎ ‎Then the priest said, “God never abandons us in our trials.” ‎ ‎Chike let out a small, broken laugh. ‎ ‎People turned. ‎ ‎He stood slowly. ‎ ‎“My son?” the priest asked gently. ‎ ‎That word cracked something open. ‎ ‎Chike pointed toward the crucifix. ‎ ‎“My son?” he repeated, voice shaking. “My daughter is dead.” ‎ ‎Silence fell immediately. ‎ ‎His breath became uneven. ‎ ‎“I prayed. I begged. I fasted. I did everything I was told to do.” ‎ ‎His voice rose. ‎ ‎“And she still died.” ‎ ‎A heavy pause. ‎ ‎Chike looked around the church, eyes wet but not gentle. ‎ ‎“So tell me,” he said, “what does it mean when you say God is good?” ‎ ‎No one answered. ‎ ‎Not the priest. ‎ ‎Not the people. ‎ ‎Only silence. ‎

‎He turned toward the crucifix one last time. ‎ ‎“You are supposed to be love,” he said quietly now. “But love does not watch a child suffer and say nothing.” ‎ ‎A long pause. ‎ ‎Then, barely audible: ‎ ‎“Or maybe I misunderstood everything.” ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He wiped his face and walked out. ‎ ‎Not in rage anymore. ‎ ‎But in emptiness. ‎ ‎And behind him, the Mass continued—as if nothing had broken at all. ‎ ‎ ‎

‎ ‎A year after the whole incident, Chike was still asking questions. “Why?...” he wondered “....does an all Powerful, all loving God allow suffering to exist in this world?” ‎ ‎One afternoon, when Chike was coming back from work, he saw a homeless derelict further down the street rejoicing and praising God. A good Samaritan had just tipped him A plate of rice, followed with the sum 10 thousand naira cash. ‎ ‎ This sight deeply disturbed Chike. What is that man on about, how can he be praising God in such a situation? He stood and watched as the man went on. ‎ ‎Almost as if the man could hear his thoughts, he said "Because I’m still alive, I’m still here, and now this. My God blessed me, My God is faithful!" ‎ ‎The homeless man’s words lingered longer than Chike expected. ‎ ‎That night, Chike did not sleep. ‎He lay awake staring at the ceiling, but it was not the ceiling he saw. It was Ada. The hospital room. The final breath. The doctor’s confident voice that now felt like a betrayal of reality. ‎ ‎“She would make a speedy recovery…” ‎ ‎Chike turned on his side. ‎ ‎“Then why did she die?” ‎ ‎No answer came. Only the familiar silence. ‎ ‎The next morning, he went to work like nothing had happened. ‎But something had changed. ‎Not outside. ‎Inside. ‎ ‎On his way back home, he found himself walking slower than usual. Almost as if he was avoiding arrival. ‎ ‎And then he saw him again. ‎The same man. ‎Same corner. ‎Same torn clothes. ‎But today… no plate of rice. No money. ‎Just sitting. ‎Quiet. ‎Still smiling anyway. ‎Chike stopped. ‎He didn’t even know why. ‎ ‎“You again,” Chike said, almost coldly. ‎ ‎The man looked up. “Me again.” ‎ ‎A pause. ‎ ‎Chike hesitated, then said: ‎“Yesterday… you were praising God because someone gave you food.” ‎ ‎The man nodded slowly. “Yes.” ‎ ‎Chike’s voice tightened. ‎ ‎“And today? What is there to praise Him for today?” ‎ ‎The man didn’t rush to answer. ‎ ‎That silence annoyed Chike more than words would have. ‎ ‎Then finally: ‎“Today I woke up.” ‎ ‎Chike blinked. ‎“That’s all?” ‎ ‎The man shrugged slightly. ‎“You think it’s small?” ‎ ‎Chike almost laughed, but it came out bitter instead. ‎ ‎“My daughter woke up every day. Until she didn’t.” ‎ ‎The man’s expression changed — not defensive, not shocked. Just… quieter. ‎ ‎“I’m sorry,” he said. ‎ ‎But he didn’t stop there. ‎ ‎“I don’t know why your daughter died.” ‎ ‎Chike stared at him sharply, expecting the usual religious explanation. ‎ ‎But none came. ‎ ‎Instead: ‎“But I know if I only praise God when things go right… am I really praising God because I love Him, or because of what He does for me? then I’m not praising God. I’m praising what he gives me.” ‎ ‎That sentence didn’t comfort him. It exposed him. ‎ ‎Chike stepped back slightly. ‎ ‎“So you’re saying I should just accept everything? That pain means nothing?” ‎ ‎The man shook his head quickly. ‎ ‎“No. Pain is pain, and it is painful.” ‎ ‎The man looked at him for a long moment, then said ‎“But if pain is all there is… then tell me why you still miss her so much?” ‎ ‎That question stayed in the air longer than the wind around them. ‎ ‎Chike didn’t answer. Because he couldn’t. ‎ ‎And for the first time since Ada died, Chike felt something unfamiliar rising inside him. ‎ ‎Not peace. ‎ ‎Not clarity. ‎ ‎Something more dangerous. ‎ ‎The beginning of listening.