Are You There, God?

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My mom still says when I was young she was afraid I'd become a nun... I remember those early days of Sunday school, when perfect Sunday school attendance meant so much.  When a week of vacation bible school was a holiday I looked forward to each summer.  Even then, my faith mattered.  I believed.  And then came the days when I was too old for Sunday school.  When my dad was my regular Sunday morning date in the pews.  Yes, I usually brought along a "Black Stallion" book to read during the sermon, but I was there.  Every week.  That faith really didn't waiver.

Even in university, when the day of rest took on a different meaning and sleeping in Sunday morning became the norm, I knew what I believed.  I packed a cardboard picture of Jesus to hang above my bedroom door.  The one my grandmother gave me when I was baptized.  The one that has hung above every bedroom door I have ever had, until Gavin was born.  The one that now hangs above his.

After putting down the university textbooks, I would pick up the bible.  In between chemistry and Shakespeare I read it cover to cover during those 4 years.  Twice.  Two or three pages every night.  I minored in religion.  My favourite class was Professor Bolen's Jesus of Nazareth.  I knew what I believed.

There was no debate on whether we would be married in a church.  Whether our son would be baptized.  Whether we would go to Christmas Eve and Easter services.  Even while I struggled to find a parish I wanted to call home, while my outward expressions of faith were negligible, I knew what I believed.

Until the day my husband died.

People say tragedy will either bring you closer or take you farther from what you believe.  There is no doubt which way I went.  That day my faith was shattered, like a piece of glass flung from the highest peaks.  I no longer know what I believe.

I cannot reconcile my God with my life.  With Kurt's fate.  I cannot find the reasons why.

And beyond the answers, I cannot find peace.

I step forward and am met with road blocks.  I talk, and no one answers.  I cry and am met with silence.  Never would I compare myself to Job... but I feel as close as I've ever felt before.  And try as I might, I can only come to one of two conclusions... My God is not listening.  Or He is not there.  

Either way, I now find myself on the curviest of paths without a road map, a life line, or a guiding light.  Lost.  Abandoned.  Forgotten.

Shortly after Kurt's funeral, I found myself drawn back to the church.  I went with the excuse of Gavin.  That I wanted him to have the same exposure.  I wanted him to know - one way or another - what he believed.  But more and more I'm coming to understand that I'm there as much for myself.  Hoping I can find some resolution to the conflict between my beliefs and my reality.  Hoping I can find reason to believe.  Hoping, one way or another, to once again know.  There's comfort in knowing something.  Anything.

I think I know what I want to believe.  I'm just looking for something to give myself permission.  And I'm not sure what that permission is...  I don't know how much longer I'll keep searching.  Whether its worth expending valuable limited energy on something that may or may not be... and if it is, doesn't seem to care that much for me.

But every week I once again find myself on the thresh hold, standing amongst the familiar, feeling very foreign.  And asking silently, to anyone who may listen...

"Are You there?"

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