Every morning at 4 a.m., even in the dead of winter, my father-in-law wakes up, takes a ritual bath, and begins his prayers. It’s a discipline rooted in the religious tradition he has followed his entire life. He recites scripture in the morning and again in the evening. When a sermon plays on television, he sits upright with his hands folded in reverence. Even during commercial breaks, his posture doesn’t change. His eyes stay fixed on the screen, as if he’s absorbing something sacred.
From the outside, it looks like peace. It looks like devotion. It looks like joy.
But step inside his home, and the picture changes.
He is sick. His body is weak. His son struggles with drug addiction—something that has torn apart countless families in America—and sometimes becomes violent. The same son who should care for him now mistreats him. There is a daughter-in-law and a grandson in the house, but the old father is no
longer part of the family’s decisions. No one asks for his advice. No one leans on his wisdom. He sits in the same house he built, but he feels like a guest.
This is the paradox that troubles me.
Here is a man who has given his entire life to prayer, ritual, and faith. Yet the outcomes of his life look nothing like the promises often attached to devotion. There is no visible reward. No protection. No clear blessing. Just illness, conflict, and loneliness.
And still, his faith does not waver.
You would think that when life keeps falling apart, a person might question the system they’ve trusted for decades. But he doesn’t. In fact, his faith seems stronger than ever.
When I try to reason with him, I say something simple: “If nothing else, shouldn’t your body be under your control? Maybe you can’t control your son, but shouldn’t years of discipline and prayer at least bring you physical health?”
He gently disagrees.
To him, prayer is not about this world. It’s about the unseen. The supernatural. The eternal. He believes that everything happening in his life is permitted by God. If his son became addicted to drugs, it must be the result of karma from a past life. Nothing, he says, happens without divine permission.
In his worldview, humans are not decision-makers. We are actors following a script written long before we were born.
But I struggle with that.
From where I stand, our lives are shaped by our choices. The habits we build. The conversations we avoid. The responsibilities we accept or deny. In America, we often talk about personal responsibility and accountability. We believe that while we can’t control everything, we are not powerless either.
When someone becomes addicted, it isn’t just destiny. It’s often unaddressed pain, unchecked behavior, missed interventions, or silence where hard conversations should have happened.
When we remove human responsibility, we also remove human power.
My father-in-law spent years trying to understand divine mysteries. But in doing so, he may have missed what was happening right in front of him. He did not see his son slipping. He did not confront the behavior early. He did not step in when it was uncomfortable. Now he suffers, but he does not see the chain of cause and effect. He sees only destiny.
There is comfort in that kind of belief. If everything is God’s will, then you are never at fault. You never have to ask hard questions. You never have to admit, “Maybe I could have done something differently.”
That belief can reduce guilt. It can soften the blow.
But it can also block growth.
When someone drives while staring only into the rearview mirror, they crash. The mirror is useful, but it is not meant to replace the windshield. The past can teach us, but it is not meant to imprison us.
Pain in the present does not have to be a punishment from the past. It can be feedback. It can be a signal that something needs attention now.
For many Americans, faith is deeply personal. It provides strength during hardship. It builds community. It gives meaning in moments that feel chaotic. But there is a difference between faith that inspires action and faith that replaces it.
Healthy faith can encourage responsibility. It can push us toward courage, honesty, and accountability. But when faith becomes a way to avoid responsibility, it turns into escape.
My father-in-law believes his illness, his family’s suffering, and his financial struggles are the result of past karma. I see something different. I see missed conversations. Avoided conflicts. Decisions that accumulated over time.
The uncomfortable truth is this: our lives often reflect our patterns.
We are not all-powerful. We cannot control everything. But we are not helpless either.
At some point, we have to stop asking, “Why did God do this?” and start asking, “What can I do now?”
That question changes everything.
It shifts us from victims of fate to participants in our own lives.
And maybe that’s where real peace begins.
Also read more at: Pause & Choose: Live Deliberately
