I had the rare privilege of coming from a long line of irreligious people. None of my grandparents observed any religious principles aside from baptism and a very occasional service on Easter or Christmas Eve. If asked, they'd have said they were Christians who choose not to affiliate with a specific church, which were for weddings and funerals.
At no point was anything like "God's Will" spoken as an explanation for anything by my grandparents; in fact, such expressions were actively derided as illogical and incurious. The Bible was considered an ancient piece of literature, not as a guidebook to anyone's life or the problems that arise in it.
My mother, whose religious education remains a mystery to me (her mother was a closet atheist, her father was a completely lapsed Catholic) nevertheless raised me to believe in the soul and in an odd sort of personalized God who loved me but who never seemed to have any effect over my physical life, no matter how hard I'd pray. My parents went church shopping, decided that the Episcopals had the nicest buildings, and attended haphazardly. 99% of the time, my father would take my sister and me alone, as my mother rarely attended services.
The crisis came when my youngest sister, ten years my junior, contracted
Eastern Equine Encephalitis as an toddler and emerged profoundly disabled. My mother simply couldn't accept that the kind and loving personalized God in whom she'd taught us to believe could allow such a thing to happen to her: and by "her", I mean my mother, not my sister actually living in highly diminished circumstances.
My take-away, which came in stages throughout my early teens when all this happened, was twofold: first was get a grip, grab a mop and clean it up 'cuz shit happens; you'll have the rest of your life to worry about whose "fault" something may or may not be. Second was that this personalized God was most probably the figment of my narcissistic mother's more lurid imagination: a kind of Santa Claus who delivers life's presents and, when you've been "bad", life's lumps of coal.
To this day, the greatest challenge I have when dealing with my mother is the fact that everything, no matter how profound or trivial, is somehow all about her, and usually a punishment. As her parents were not sociopaths, and her sister manages to deal quite fine with life's bumps (and who is an outspoken atheist), this propensity for narcissistic delusion and life-long grudge-holding, blaming and punishment comes, I suspect, from her deeply held (and deeply flawed) belief that God hates her.
My own spirituality is my own matter; it exists, but I don't often discuss it. However, I cannot bring myself to believe in my mother's Santa-like, sinister, personalized God. That myth destroys many more lives than it illuminates and enhances.