Am I Not Still God?

Copyright © 2002 by Kathy Troccoli.

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may

be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical,

photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief

quotations in printed reviews, without the prior

permission of the publisher.

Published by W Publishing Group,

a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.,

P. O. Box 141000, Nashville, Tennessee, 37214.

Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations used in this

book are from The Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV).

Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, International Bible Society.

Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.

Other Scripture references are from the following sources:

The Living Bible (TLB), copyright © 1971 by Tyndale House Publishers,

Wheaton, Ill. Used by permission.

The New American Standard Bible (NASB), copyright © 1960, 1962,

1963, 1968, 1971, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation.

Used by permission.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Troccoli, Kathy.

Am I not still God? / by Kathy Troccoli.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references (p.).

ISBN 0-8499-1709-3 (hc)

ISBN 0-8499-4398-1 (tp)

1. Suffering—Religious aspects—Christianity.

2. Christian life. 1. Title.

BV4909.T762002

248.8'6—DC21

2001056897

03 04 05 06 07 PHX 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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Dedicated

to the memory of

my dear mother and father,

Josephine and Frank

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PART 1: STORMS

Looking Around

Chapter 1

Am I Not Still God?

Chapter 2

Where Are You?

Chapter 3

Brace Yourself

PART 2: THE SHELTER

Looking Up

Chapter 4

Always Present

Chapter 5

Never without Hope

Chapter 6

Complete Trust

PART 3: SAILING ON

Looking Ahead

Chapter 7

Winds of Faith

Chapter 8

Wounded Healer

Epilogue The Mourning After

NOTES

SOURCES FOR SONGS

Acknowledgments

For their generous love and support, I wish to thank Dee Brestin,

Matt Baugher, Mark Sweeney and W Publishing, Debbie

Wickwire, Linda Montero, Todd and Peggy Schilling,

my Prayer Team, Kathy Decker, and Glena Jacobs.

Part 1

Storms

Looking Around

Chapter 1

Am I Not Still God?

I was fourteen years old. Usually my Saturdays began with my mother cooking up a huge breakfast for my dad, my sister, and me. It was a weekly ritual to have hot rolls and eggs. Even now the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee reminds me of those special times with my family.

But this Saturday morning was different.

For the last couple of weeks my dad had been losing weight, and on this morning he had awakened with strange pains in his stomach and looked pale and gray. He couldn’t stop vomiting. My mother immediately put him in the car and left for the emergency room. As she left in a panic, she told my sister and me to have breakfast next door at my aunt’s house. We knew something was wrong, but we didn’t know how wrong.

With each hour that passed, I worried more. Something was definitely not right. Every time the phone rang, my heart jumped but my spirit sank. I had an awful premonition that we were going to hear terrible news.

A storm was brewing that was going to turn my life upside down, close the door of childhood forever, and force me to begin a journey that would lead me into pondering life and death, suffering, eternity, and the heart of God.

Without Warning a Furious Squall Came Up

Finally Mom called. All I heard my aunt say was, Oh, my God! Seventy-two hours to live?

I thought, Am I hearing right? It turned out that cancer had infested Dad’s colon and peritonitis was poisoning his system. He ended up living eleven more months. I look back now and think, How could a young teenager have understood what was going on? It was almost as if I were in some sort of weird fog. I don’t think I ever acknowledged how sick my dad was. I don’t think I really believed he would die. He was my dad. He was strong. He worked all the time. He never got sick. Besides . . . this was an awful intrusion into our lives. I am ashamed to say that many days of my adolescence were infused with a subtle selfishness. I watched my mom lose an incredible amount of weight as she continued to work, take care of my sister and me, and attend to all the duties of being deeply committed to a dying man. I often think about how she also managed to hide her own pain.

My dad was a printer in New York City. He was a foreman with many responsibilities. Every day Frank Troccoli needed to meet deadlines, handling numerous gigantic printing presses. His job made his hands different from those of any of my friend’s fathers. No matter how much he cleaned them up, the lines in his fingertips were engraved with dark black ink. He worked hard. He worked long hours. He lived for the weekends.

I grew up in a little town called Islip Terrace, Long Island, from where my dad would take the 5:30 train every morning into the heart of New York City. He would usually come home anywhere between 6:30 and 8:30 at night. Yes, Saturday and Sunday were his days. They were also the only days I would get to spend any time with him. What I remember most about him was that he was consistently kind and good-natured. He loved people and was extremely social. There were many summers when my parents would throw big pool parties in our backyard. Lots of food. Lots of laughter. Lots of fun. My dad took so much pride in how his house and his yard looked. The majority of my time with him was spent mowing the lawn, or weeding around the bushes and fences. At the end of the day, with sweaty bodies and dirty hands, we would look around at our freshly groomed part of the world. He would have this look of contentment on his face, and I would always know that it had been a day well spent.

My dad was five-foot-eight and stocky. He always looked so strong to me. He acquired the famous beer gut that can work its way onto the physique of many men, but he kept shoulders and arms that were solid and athletic looking. That is why it grieved me to watch his body become slight and frail as it was ravaged by cancer.

I talk about Dad being a printer and also of my fond memories of us working together on hot Saturdays making our yard look like a paradise. It’s funny, because two specific memories, pertaining to each of these things, have stayed with me, deeply etched in my heart.

As my father became more ill, it was obvious that he could not keep up with the responsibilities of his job. Just traveling to the City to work exhausted him before he even began his workday. I know it broke his heart not to be capable of doing what he loved doing. I remember a specific day when Mom took my sister and me to McDonald’s. On the way home she said that we were going to visit my dad at his new job. I will never forget what I felt when I walked through the doors of what looked like an old barn. My heart experienced a strange kind of breaking. There, in the midst of lots of old wood and sawdust, was my father. He was working with one little printing press alongside an elderly man. This man owned and ran this tiny printing business in his backyard. My dad greeted us with a big smile on his face, and I realize now how humbling it must have been for him to work in conditions that were so inferior to his former position. It has spoken to me many times of his work ethic and his integrity.

I often think about what it would have been like if my father had lived. I would have loved to relate to him, not just as a little girl, but as an adult woman. I often think he would be proud of me. He absolutely gave me a love for people, and I pray I’m giving him the honor of being a woman who yearns to have the heart of God. When I first started singing, my dad would knock on my bedroom door and say,

Please sing for me. Sing for Daddy.

I would oftentimes be annoyed at the interruption or would say something like,

Not now, Dad. I don’t feel like it.

He would reply like a child,

Come on. Just a little bit. Just one song.

Boy . . . do I wish I had serenaded him more. Each time my voice rises toward heaven, I hope my dad gets to hear the song.

And the Waves Swept over the Boat

It was May 24, 1974. I was in biology class. My name was called over the loudspeaker to report to the main office. All the students stared at me with a deafening silence. They knew my father had been dying. As I approached the lobby of the school, my grandfather and my aunt took my hand and led me to the car. Not a word was spoken as we drove the couple of miles home that felt like an eternity. I walked into my house to utter chaos. Family members were crying. Some were angry and saying a lot of If only the doctors would have . . . kinds of things. People were grabbing me and hugging me tightly, which annoyed me and stifled me more than comforted me. I needed to explode. I’m not sure about all the emotions I was feeling—of course the obvious ones—but all I can tell you is that they were piercing and I was experiencing the weight of them.

I ran outside into the backyard. Our yard was huge. It always seemed like forever to mow it all. Now the grass was high and the weeds were overtaking the beauty I once knew. My father was dead, and so was the ground I was looking at. There seemed to be thousands of dandelions around my feet. All I could do was tear into them. I ripped and I pulled. I kicked and I screamed. With every yank there seemed to be less pressure in my body, and I broke into a loud cry.

Save Me, LORD; I’m Drowning!

I know you understand, because though you may not have lost a parent when you were a child, you have experienced pain— and sometimes it has been overwhelming. I know because Jesus said this life would be full of trouble. I know because I have talked to you. God has blessed me enormously by giving me a voice, by opening doors of ministry for me, and by allowing me to meet you. Often the time I spend at my book table after a seminar is much longer than the time I have had onstage. This is my time to meet you, to pray with you, to listen to your hearts. I know storms are a part of life, and many of you tell me how the waves are sweeping over your boat. You have been calling to Jesus, pleading for His help. Some of you have stopped calling. Life has been too hard.

Just in the last few months, even in the last few days, these are some of the things I have heard:

A young mother of three—who is a new believer in Jesus Christ—walks into the bedroom of her youngest son, a two-and-a-half-year-old boy, only to find his body cold and still. He died inexplicably in the middle of the night.

A single woman who often comes to my concerts is on vacation with her best friend in the Bahamas.

She takes a long walk in the middle of a beautiful sunny day and is raped.

A handsome man—so kind and charming—struggles every day with his thorn. His desires are not for women but for men.

A sweet couple—so eager and ready to be a mommy and daddy—have tried everything under the sun to conceive a child and her womb remains barren.

A vibrant, strong girl finishes her last treatment for breast cancer, and discovers that the cancer has just traveled into her bones.

I could fill the pages of this book—maybe even the books in an entire library—with more sad stories just like these. I know some of you could too. Every single day, life unfolds— revealing terrible tragedies along with sheer joys . . . carrying every emotion and circumstance imaginable or unimaginable. Life’s slow unfolding stops for no one.

Sometimes the fists punch toward heaven, sometimes the tears flow like a gushing river, sometimes those tears are held back by a dam of anger—and sometimes, knees fall to the ground as a soul abandons everything to the One in control of it all.

How many times do you think Almighty God has heard . . .

Why is this happening?

How could You allow this?

If You were a loving God . . .

That person doesn’t deserve this!

Where are You?

These questions have been ringing in God’s ears from the Garden of Eden all the way into the twenty-first century. We don’t understand His ways, we question His wisdom, we wrestle with our faith, and ultimately, we wonder, Just how much can I trust God?

Can you blame us? We are trapped in a casing of flesh and blood. Even when God came to earth in the form of man, He asked, Why? from the cross. We have finite minds, fickle hearts, and failing bodies. What do we know? Yet when a question of life or death comes at us— of what is fair