I remember, when I was ten years old, I asked God for something.
As honest as I try to be with this blog, I will not share what I asked for, as it is far too intimate for a public blog.
But I asked God for something. Something important. Something monumental in my faith. Something a ten year old could ask for, innocently, without realizing the incredible maturity and humility it takes to ask for it.
God’s answer was silence.
I did not get an answer. I did not get a resolution, a solution. No wishes were granted.
At ten years old, I lost my faith.
I spent the next ten years searching for some spirituality that spoke to me. Wicca seemed nice, but there were too many restrictions.
Buddhism…well, I was far too gluttonous and passion-driven for Buddhism.
Hinduism was almost right, but not quite.
I strayed away from any Catholicism, Christianity or Judaism. They all dealt with the same God – the God that didn’t answer little ten-year-old girl prayers. I wanted no part of that.
I couldn’t find anything I could truly believe in.
I wanted to. I wanted so badly to have faith in something.
But I couldn’t.
My soul was dead.
I lived my life like that. Faithless. Spiritless. Empty.
I hated anyone who had faith. Faith in anything. Because I didn’t. Not in God, not in any kind of God. Not in any specific person or people, in general.
Certainly not in myself.
I was a shell.
At twenty, I found faith again. I found a reason to have faith. My soul sang, my spirit soared. I was full of something. My smile reached my eyes. My heart pumped warm, thick blood. I was alive and with purpose.
It felt like childhood. Felt like believing in Santa all over again. Felt like having two parents who kissed your cheek before kissing each others lips at night.
I was alive and with feeling. Alive and with reason. Alive and with soul.
It was such an instant, overwhelming thing, this faith. I knew at once that without it, I would surely die. I could never survive, knowing a feeling like this just to have it taken away from me.
This was mine, and it was real, and it was solid.
I never talked to God. I never felt I had to.
I was aware of Him, as He was aware of me, and we existed this way.
It was a few years later, when I found myself. When I discovered my soul, and it’s contents. When I saw everything as it truly was. The curse that I actually felt was a blessing, or the blessing that felt like a curse.
I embraced myself and my soul. I belonged somewhere. I had real and righteous purpose. A warrior.
Two years ago, God finally spoke to me in a way I could understand. He talked. And he talked, and he talked…
Then I talked.
And he stopped.
I spent a while, only speaking to God if I was begging.
At some point, I realized how wrong that was and made a promise.
I would speak to Him every day. I would pray on good days and bad. I would not only ever come to Him begging. I would remember to thank Him, often.
I have never prayed without sobbing.
I have not heard from God in that way, since that last time.
I have been struggling with faith.
I have felt forsaken.
I remember who I am, and wish I was that lucky.
But I long for that contact. That acceptance. That forgiveness.
I believe I have too many sins for God to forsake me.
I believe, maybe, He has been waiting.
And I am ready, now.
I had thought about visiting a church. Someplace old and historic. Someplace that smelled old and had a ceiling so high, it took my breath away.
I was told I would not find what I was looking for, there.
And I know that, now. That connection, that forgiveness I crave can only be achieved through me. Through my atonement.
I am beginning my penance.
My absolution starts now.
I am sorry for posting something so…spiritual. I am aware that does not fit well with the rest of my blog. Forgive me, this raw honesty tonight.
Forgive my openness.
Forgive my name.
WTF, mates? 