I’m always thinking about God. It drives me crazy, really, how often I think about Him.
I miss church. I don’t miss the stodgy women who look down their noses at my tattoos as they shield their children behind their arms, trying to create a force field between my terrible influence and their innocence. I don’t miss the super liberal women who expand and expand and expand God so that they worship everything and get weepy eyed at the idea of other people. I miss the safety, the feeling of order, the calming influence of feeling like I have a strong-armed father who curls me into a relaxing hug when I feel overwhelmed, who looks over my shoulder and dances up and down when I succeed at something I’ve struggled with. I miss having people to talk to about that and having a venue to talk about it.
When I say things like grace or faith or will or Christ, the words feel thick in my mouth and slow, uncomfortable, like re-learning how to walk after being bed-ridden for weeks. I want to talk about these things but I spent some concerted energy a few years ago pushing these words out my mouth and refusing to let them come back in. I brushed the gaze of God off my shoulders and squared them to tromp forward alone.
I have trouble believing the things I heard in church so long ago. If God’s in charge why did he leave such terrible managers to run things on Earth? Where are these multitudes of signs that say He’s here, He’s watching, He loves you? Am I missing them? Or am I closing my eyes and furiously demanding to see through my eyelids?
I am fighting my own heart and I just don’t know who is winning anymore.
