When You Don't Know What to Say

There's a school of thought that holds that when it comes to writing, if you don't know what to say then you should just keep writing anyway because eventually you'll get past the block. Since this blog is about writing about religion, I suppose it's just as good a place as any to work through the block, especially because it's all experimental non-fiction anyway.

I think I probably need a glass of wine to work through the block.

And maybe some cold medicine since I have caught a cold I can't shake.

There. That's better. The cat, the dog, and I are sitting in the living room doing our seperate things. The dog is sleeping, the cat is grooming, and I am trying to sort out my thoughts.

It's been 12 years since my high school best friend killed herself. This year was easier than the others. Each year gets a little easier. I think maybe my concious mind found it easier than my subconcious mind, given the fact that I spent it freezing beans and squash, making salsa, making pesto, and making pasta salad from the time I got home until the time I went to bed. I realized the next day that it had been The Day.

I used to envy her, think she was brave, hate God about her, want to follow her. Now I think it's just sad. It's incredibly sad. There are so many things she missed, things she'd have liked. She would have liked being a grown-up with her own house and pets and yard. She would have liked having a garden like I do. She would have liked being married.

I probably would have liked who I was going to be before she killed herself. Most days I like who I am now, though, except that sometimes I forget to feed the dog on time, and sometimes I drink too much, and sometimes I'm not a patient wife. Sometimes I forget to live in the here and now because I'm always thinking about who will leave me next.

A lot of people took it upon themselves to cause me a lot of heartache before my wedding, and some continue to try to do so, but I love him, and it was a good decision. He is the love of my life; I've never loved anyone the way I love him. He's working again, and I'm on my own a lot, and it's the first time in my life that I haven't loved being alone. I'm lonely; I miss him. He's the only one I let in that much. When I think about how much panic I suffered on that day because my parents weren't happy or a few friends weren't happy or a couple of people on Facebook weren't happy, or a stupid test we took wasn't happy, I smile smally to myself. Best. Decision. Ever.

I love being married. I love being married to my husband. I don't think I'd like being married to anyone else. And it's hard. The first few weeks were particularly rough, and I thought to myself, I know I'm not the only one, so I don't know what all those bitches were being so smug about. But at the end of the day, I love it.

Life keeps taking pot shots at us. I try not to blame anybody. But sometimes I blame God. Sometimes I blame myself. Sometimes I blame the people who I know were praying I'd change my mind and do something sensible. What they thought that was, I don't know. I'm going to do something even less sensible before I'm done, too. I'm going to do what I should have done a long time ago. I'm going to go get my MFA in writing. And I don't care that it's not profitable. There's nothing else I want to invest that much time and money in. I want to learn to write better, beautifully, achingly. I want to make crying people laugh. I want to make them cry, too.

A lot of people died this summer, and one in particular shook me up. She found out she was dying and a week later, she was dead. And I think that would be the worst--no time off, no time for reflection, no time to finish a couple of things on the bucket list. And it was hard because we'd grown closer; she'd talked to me the way I wished my mom or a few of my friends would. She was excited and happy and she said she could just tell that we were in love and that he was a kind man. She was excited to hear my stories; she didn't just stare blankly at me. She ooo'ed and ahhh'ed at my dress and at my invitations and at everything else I showed her. She told me stories about her husband and how in love they'd been and how she still loved him and missed him. And she told me she was sorry that my parents couldn't accept my fiance and how ridiculous she thought that was. She told me that they would come around and that I needed to follow my heart. She told me that she just knew we were going to be so happy together, she could just tell. When I was sinking, she shared her raft with me for awhile. I thought of her words on my wedding day. She teared up when she talked about her late husband. The stories she shared about her love for him were beautiful stories, and I'm thankful to have heard them. And I'm so glad I told her how much that meant to me before she left for the summer because I didn't get another chance. It meant the world to me. I miss her deeply.

Here's the thing. I don't want to get to the end of my life and realize that I missed out on a lot of things that I would have loved. Because not everyone knows when the end will be. Some people, like my high school friend, choose. Some people, like my grandma, seem to live forever and have lots of time granted to them, but maybe they don't enjoy it as much as they could. Some people get months and have the resources to be able to have a few last hurrahs. But most of us don't know when we're going. We just go.

When I go, I don't want to be saddled with regrets. When I go, I want to travel lightly and know that I had a blessed life, a full life, a life I enjoyed living with people who enjoyed me. I want to have beautiful stories to share with people who are in doubt.

Some people live their lives like everybody's on trial and has to stand up under fire and tribulation, but I don't really believe that's the way life is. Life is just life. Everybody gets one. Try to be kind to each other while you live it and try to get the most out of it. I don't really think it's that complicated. Enjoy yourself and don't hurt yourself or anybody if you can help it. Do no harm.

And if you don't do it right today, get up tomorrow and tackle the next day with more grace. What else can you do? Try to be as kind to yourself as you are to others and vice versa. Try to feed the dog on time.

I could spend a lifetime asking myself what I could have done differently to make various people stay. But I'm not going to do that. I'm going to live a life I choose. Maybe it's not the life others would have chosen. That's good. Life would be pretty boring if we all chose the same path.

Finding Me

I am going through what I hope is the end of my quarter-life crisis because if it keeps on much longer, I'm going to skip any semblance of normalcy and coast right on into a mid-life crisis.

Mostly, I hate my job, and I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. This would be more interesting if I was not already grown up. Since I am, it's irritating. Mostly, I hate listening to people whine all day long. I have two groups to listen to: the "customers" and my "co-workers." These two groups spend the entire day whining to me about things that don't matter. And my co-workers are worse than my customers. To be frank, I don't want to save the planet, and I am sick of hypocrits who think they are saving the world by arguing over the last meeting minutes. You're not saving anybody. Stop being assholes. That is what I would like to say. Instead, I excuse myself and go hide in the bathroom for a few minutes each hour.

Then I come home to my real life and work two hours of overtime (for which I should be grateful) and plan my wedding, which, frankly, stresses me out. I should be happy to have lots of work at this time. Mostly, though, it is just really stressful. But, I need the money. Who doesn't right now? We all need money.

God and I are not really speaking very often. When we do, it's fine. I'm not willing to keep bending to fit into this job. If that's a condition of being on good terms with God, then I am probably going to be on the outs. Once this economy recovers, I am going to get the hell out.

I've given up on finding something that I will love doing. I would settle for something I don't hate every. single. day. I would settle for not dreading going to bed because it means that I will have to wake up and trudge into that job and sit there for eight and a half hours before I can go home and get back to my real life that actually means something. I would settle for something that kept me busy until the whistle blows at the end of the day. I would settle for something that pays enough that I don't have to work every fucking waking minute of my free time in order to pay for a garden, a house, and future fat babies and their college funds. I would settle for so much less than happiness if it just paid a living wage and didn't make me want to walk out on a regular basis.

The truth is, I am bored with everything except my fiance. He calls me every morning, and this gets me out of bed. And maybe if I didn't have him, then I wouldn't realize how good and shiny everything can be and I wouldn't notice that I am so fucking bored. Maybe without him I would think that everything was fine because I wouldn't have anything bright to run home to except two more hours of work followed by long, empty hours that I would have to fill with something.

But I did find him, much to a few people's dismay, and he made me see that I was only living half a life. There's a whole other half filled with vegetable gardens and lovely dinners and foot rubs and snuggling. Snuggling should come with a warning label. It is just that good.

Two people asked me when I'm going to go back to school in the last two weeks. I don't think I'm ever going to go back to school. I don't think I care enough about school. I mean, it might make me less bored, but I don't want what my co-workers have. Most of them have wrecked marriages or insane schedules or both. I'd rather stay in a lower level position. I once asked someone higher up the ladder than I how she balanced her outside life with her work life. She laughed and said, "What outside life?"

And that was the moment. That was the moment I stopped trying to struggle up the ladder. I remembered the book called Hope for the Flowers at that exact moment, and I just quit climbing. Why do that to myself? Why do people do that to themselves?

My fiance says that most people don't have the capacity to just realize what they are and change themselves. I do it a lot. I realized that I was turning into a corporate drone, and I just said to myself, "I'm not going to do that anymore." And I quit. I put in my eight hours, and I go home. And I would like to find a job where it is easier to put in my eight hours each day, but I'm never going to try to climb up the ladder. I think all that's up there is more pressure and more work. I would like more money, but I don't need more pressure and more stress and more work.

Why don't people have the capacity to change? It is my firm belief that everyone knows what they are, but most people can't face it. They pay lots of money to various people to tell them what they already know, and then they don't do what they need to do to get better. My fiance says that this is because most people can only change after years and years of therapy, and then only maybe. I don't get it. He says that people can't change the type of people they are attracted to. He's completely different than my last boyfriend because I made a concentrated effort to change who I dated, mostly because we were just so bad together. As long as we're apart, we're both good people, but together, we were terrible. I was clingly, and he was bossy, and we were both just plain old mean to each other. It was toxic, and it broke me, and it took years to get over it. But on the other side, I knew what it had been, I knew what I had been, and I knew what I was looking for. My fiance says it's not that simple for most people. I think he's wrong. It is that simple. It's just that it takes time, and people would rather spend that time in someone else's arms than spend the time looking inside themselves. Most people are scared of what's in there. I know what's in there. I know my darkest depths. I have few surprises left for myself. When you know your own depths, then facing them gets less and less scary, and changing becomes easier and easier.

I change myself all the time. One day, I hope I will become the butterfly I was supposed to be before my best friend killed herself. I cannot wait for the day when that death will stop affecting me and my decisions. I cannot wait for the day when I will no longer expect people to walk out of my life and leave me. I am always waiting for someone to leave me. Even my fiance. I wait for the day when he will realize my depths and head for shallower waters. I know it will come; I know it will cause me great pain. I don't care. I'm going with him until the time when he gives up on me. And when he gives up, I will change again.

I don't understand other people. I don't understand people who can't do anything they put their minds to. Maybe I'm just an elitist. Maybe I'm just smug.


When I get through this quarter life crisis, I hope I'll have become someone that my grandfather still loves.

Finding a New Church

I have to set about finding a new church. I really don't want to. I'm really just so done with church. I love having a place to sing, and I love being in God's house. But I am done being judged by people who have nothing on me--people who are not me, who have not lived through what I have, who probably would not have made it. I am done being told that who I am is not good enough for what they're doing. And who I am has never been good enough; I've always had to be someone else, except with my fiance. Someone once told me that the bits that are "not good enough" are not really who I am. He was wrong. Every bit, good and bad, is a part of me. They're the part of me that is shock-proof, and I fought for that, and I'm keeping it. So screw them and the judgement bus they rode in on. Who I am is good enough for me.

But I have to find a church, anyway, where my future hubby and I can go for our pre-marital counseling so that we can get married in the church where I grew up (and where I am still a member). Because, come what may, I would like to get married in a place that feels like home. And I did a lot of growing in that place, and I am loved there. I love them, too. It's not a pretty church, but I like it. I like the sun shining in the west windows along the wall. I like how bright it is. I like the baptism tub and the plain wooden cross on the wall. I even like the ugly carpet. I like the ugly pews, too. I love the old hymnals even though they don't really use them anymore. I like that it's handicapped accessible when many churches up there aren't. It means that my grandmas can get around easily and that our family friends will be able to attend.

But this counseling stuff scares me very much. I'm afraid that we won't be able to get the counseling without having gone to the church. And I'm afraid that once we get the counseling, the pastor will say that we should not get married or will not approve of us getting married in the church. And we'll then have to get married in my parents' back yard or in the town's communty center (because I am going to marry him, regardless), which would not be the end of the world, I guess. But many major events of my life took place in my good old church back home, and I would like to add another to the list. Plus I think that either of the other locations would be problematic for my mother and grandparents and the caterer.

I am afraid that this pastor will look at us and tell us that we will not work or that we should take more time or that we should not be unequally yoked. I'm afraid that I will then tell him that I am not being unequally yoked, that I am not someone who would ever be happy with a typical Christian, that I myself am not a typical Christian, nor will I ever be. I'm never going to be one of those people who carries her Bible under her arm and her perfect attendance record in her head ever again. I'm never going to believe that it's wrong to love the man I love. Never. That's just not who I am. I am done pretending. And I'm done pretending to feel badly about things I don't feel badly about.

I'm afraid that I am not going to be good enough to remain a member of a BGC church. I'm afraid that if I'm honest, they will kick me out, and I'm afraid that if I'm not, they will say that he and I are not right for each other, even though we are. I'm afraid that who we are together will not be good enough even though I know we are good enough. I know that even on our bad days we are good enough for any seat at the table.

We love each other, and sometimes we hurt each other, and we keep on loving each other anyway. Even though I'm a bad person, a f-ed up person, he loves me. He doesn't think I'm f-ed up. And I love him back. We took care of each other this year by turns. I took care of him while he was sick, and he has taken care of me while I've been sick. No one else even knew how sick I was. No one else knew that at the end of the day, I came home and couldn't hardly get off the couch or out of my bed. No one else petted my hair and held me while my tummy was hurting me. No one else held back my hair while I threw up after my surgery. Not even my mom. Just him. (And, as a good friend once told me, that's real love.)

My dad hates that he's not a Christian, and so do a couple of my friends. I am reminded of a quote that I fell in love with long ago: "Mother, I love you, and if I had two lives to live, I would give you one, but I don't."

If I had two lives to live, I would give one over to being dedicated to what other people want for me. I would give one over to whatever pastor we end up finding who will sit with us for 6 hours to talk about our future together and to my friends and to my dad. I would not make other people sad if I had a choice. But it is either them or me. I know they want what's best for me, but they wanted what was best for me when they told me not to major in journalism, when they told me not to go to grad school, when they told me to get a job or two, when they told me to quit the second job and go to school. Other people have always wanted what is best for me, but they have never known what that is.

I'm not going to live life like that anymore. I'm going to do what I think is right. Maybe I will be wrong. If that is the case, there will be consequences that will be hard to face. I hope I still have friends to help me through it. If I do not, I will make new friends because that is what I do. I love this man, not some other man, not some religious man--this man. People who love me need to love him, too. If not, then we cannot be friends. We cannot even have a casual conversation in civil tones.

It makes me irrate that people judge him for his lack of relgion. He's a better person than I have ever been. He thinks the best of people where I have only ever seen the worst. The things people hide are evident to me before they confess them; to him, people are just what they seem to be. He calms me, makes me see that other people's secrets don't matter, that their indiscretions and horrors are not ours to face. We can be grateful that we are not those people, and that's all we need to do. What could I ever do about the terrible things I knew about people without knowing how I knew, anyway? When I'm with him, they roll off my back. The secrets people have, the lies that they tell, are all irrelevant--discerning them is a clever party trick I pull out while we are people watching or while we are watching the news, nothing more. He believes I can read them and their situations from some largely indecernable cues, but he also believes that just knowing isn't that important. He chuckles when I predict a twist in a news story two days before it breaks. He laughs when we watch cop shows on TV and I say, "He did it" the minute a character appears on the set (and end up being right). It's like what Pratchett says about witches not believing in gods because it would be like believing in the postman--of course he exists. Of course my ability exists, but so what? That goes a long way toward making me ok.

It makes me irrate that people judge me for loving him. What else can I do when I see that he has such a beautiful heart?

And because I have a talent for knowing things, I am not worried about what my father is worried about. He is worried about a hard life for me. He is worried that he prayed to God for my husband for all those years before and after I was born only to have me marry a godless man. He worries that I will lose my faith (if I have any). He is worried that my fiance and Jesus will not mix. I do not worry about these things. I know that God has given my dad what he didn't know he was asking for--someone who will love me completely. And I don't worry about his lack of belief. I know that my two best friends are going to meet one day. One day, it will just happen. One day, the truth will just be clear to him (or if it is not truth, then it will come clear to me). It is not a belief or a hope; it is a fact that I know just like I know that gravity will continue to work tomorrow.

I just hope that whoever we end up with sees that we are both unique and interesting people who were basically made for each other--two people who just wouldn't be as good apart. I hope this person sees the man that I have come to admire. I hope they see the person that I might become, the person I am trying to become. I hope this person understands that, religious or not, everybody has a 50% chance (if my knowledge of the divorce rate still holds), and that we have as good a shot at it as most and a better shot than many because we've already been through tough stuff and held tighter to each other through it.

We're just two people in love. We might be wrong. It might end horribly and crash and burn around us. That's always a possibility that people have to face. But we both hope it doesn't. We both are willing to try to prevent it from burning down. We will hurt each other. There will probably be nights when I will wish for a few minutes alone. There will probably be nights when he will wish I would just shut up and let him watch his TV. But I think we both hope that we will always be sorry when we do.

In the end, I think I hope I find a church that can be a home for us both, a place that will take us as we are and love us as much as we love each other, as much as my home church loves me.

I am sure of what I hope for and certain of things unseen.

In Theory

This blog was a good idea in theory, but I find that I told too many people I know about this blog, and this leaves me feeling like I can no longer be honest with myself or with the blog. Lately, I don't feel like I can be honest anywhere with anyone. I feel like no one wants to hear what I have to say, anyway. I feel like I can only be honest with myself (and maybe not even then), and I spend a lot of time living in my own head away from other people.

I'm just so tired. I'm tired of people and their judgements and their f-ing problems. I guess my social anxiety is getting the better of me. I had to run to the store tonight, and I realized that it's the first time I've been out alone after 9 in at least a month.

Maybe Senor or Senorita Anonymous is right. Maybe I've never known who Jesus is. God and I, we've come to terms with each other. I recognize that he's not like my dad--he's not waiting to yell at me if I get something wrong, and he recognizes that I am who I am. I don't know why, but he does. When I feel like I don't belong and that everyone is judging me (yes, you), I know that he's not. He'll definitely tell it like it is because that's how I have to hear it, but he's never cruel about it. He's often just chillin', waiting for me to come to my senses. If God's got anything, it's time...and love.

The thing that I've realized over the years is that God isn't threatened by my lack of belief or my lack of direction. He might be irritated, but he's not threatened. I'm nothing and nobody, apart from the fact that he loves me with that fathomless love that I can't begin to understand. He keeps on loving me. He knows I'm going to come around. He's seen the end of the movie, and he knows the plans he has for me. He knows I need him. He's got me right where he wants me.

Sometimes, I wonder if we each make up a God that we can understand. Or if we each see the part of God that we can best relate to. So, some of us see the side of God that is beautiful enough to have created flowers and fawns, and some of us see the side that is strong, and some of us see the side of God that is harsh, and some of us see the side of God that judges (fairly or unfairly), and some of us see the side of God that sent his only son to die in this mud pit, and some of us see the side of God that lets bad things happen to good people, and some of us see the side of God that put Jonah in the whale, and some of us see the God that is coming back for us. And some of us see the side of God that could make an earth that hums in rings.

When I try to picture God, when I try to understand how so many people can have such different views of him, I am always reminded of the fable of the blind men trying to describe an elephant. Each of them has a hold of a different part, so each of them insists the elephant is like a different thing. Sometimes, I think that we are all in the dark, claiming that God is one thing because that is the one piece we can see in our blindness. When we finally get to see him, the lights will come on. We will see "face to face." I don't think a single person is going to get there and go, "Ah, yes, this is exactly what I expected God to be like." I think we will all go, "Now I see. I can't believe I could have been so blind all this time. It all makes perfect sense now." I think it's going to be one giant "light bulb" moment when we all realize what asses we were to each other over things we didn't understand at all.

I'm not done with God. A more accurate statement would probably be that he is not done with me. I haven't been to church in a long time because I'm not doing anyone any good there, least of all myself. I'm cynical and searching and angry and frustrated and not all of it has anything to do with the church itself. And in a lot of ways, I want (and have always wanted) something that church has just never given me. I don't know what. I think I want someone to notice me or something, but not notice me in the way that people always notice other people. I've always wanted to be able to sit down with a pastor and say some of this stuff, but I know that's not possible. I wouldn't feel comfortable with sharing it, even if they were comfortable with hearing it, which I doubt. I don't know. I can't articulate what I want, so it's not likely anyone can give it to me. It's something I have to find.

And I'll be honest, I'm dating a non-Christian, and I like him better than any Christian guy I've ever met. I love him more than anyone else, even more than my family. And this means something. I'm going to find out what. And I'm not about to feel guilty about it. I don't want to have to justify myself anymore. I love him.

Right now, I've got a different part of the elephant than everyone else around me. What can I do? I know what my part is like. I also know that everybody else is probably also right about the parts they're holding on to. I know that the two are not neccessarily mutually exclusive. But I'm tired of people acting superior to me because they think they've cornered the market on what the elephant is like.

This is a rambling post, but that's what this blog is for: rough drafts. It's the notes for a bigger project. So, I'm sorry that I'm publishing the raw materials rather than the finished product, but it'll have to do for now.

Love

In the spirit of this blog, I'm about to come clean. I am crazy in love with the kindest man I've ever met. When I'm not with him, I'm sad. When we can't be together, I get lonely. When I think of what I want to do with my spare time, I think of him first. When I think of who I want to be, I want to be a better person for him. Sometimes, he even makes me want to cook. :O

"When did this happen?" you might ask. Well, I can tell you, it was the moment we saw the seahorses at the aquarium. Seahorses, you might not know, partner for life. The males have the babies, and the females and males dance together daily. They hold tails and swim together. They greet each other. They are very unusual fish. We were bored with the aquarium, but there was a special exhibit, so we wandered in. We walked up to the first tank, and the seahorses were dancing together, and he took one look and said, "They're hugging!" in the most awestruck, compassionate voice I've ever heard anybody use. Here he is, looking like a linebacker or, as some have told me, possibly a Viking, awestruck by a fish the size of his index finger. He looked at them gently, and he held them in reverence. And that was the moment I knew that I loved him more than anybody else. Any man who can be that tender towards a fish simply because they show affection for each other is a man I want to journey with.

And, oh, wonder of wonders, he loves me back. All the things that I thought made me unlovable make him smile. He thinks I'm cute, despite all evidence to the contrary. I've never had anyone accept me so completely and so without question. It doesn't seem to lessen with time, only grow stronger. He loves me more unconditionally than anyone ever has.

And he is not a Christian, and I do not care.

So then, what does this have to do with religion? I have only the vaguest idea myself. But it seems to me that if you've been searching your whole life for love (whether romantic or friendship) that doesn't cringe at your ugly spots, and you've pulled them all out (even the ones you've never shown anybody because of how they've reacted to lesser ugliness), and this one person (one person in the whole world over the course of 27 years) doesn't flinch, doesn't change towards you afterwards, doesn't talk differently or look at you differently, doesn't even bat an eye, and if that person is the most lovable person you've ever met, if you love that person more than anyone else, then doesn't that mean something?


That's reason enough to hold on and not let go, not ever, no matter what. And I'm so tired of feeling judged about it, I could just scream.

I'm not going to say that there aren't times when it would be nice to have someone who believes the same things I do regarding religion. For example, I'd like to have someone to pray with. At one point, it was on my list of deal-breakers. But he is willing to pray with me, and he goes to church with me (when I go). When I think about our future, I feel a sense of peace.

To me, in the end, it's pretty simple. Do you pitch your tent with people who have nothing but judgement for you or do you pitch it with the person who loves everything about you, even the parts that are pretty unlovable? With the people who have always held you as something of a nut or with the person you trust with your deepest secrets? With the people who lie to you or with the person who tells you all his deepest secrets (and the truth about yourself)? With the people who think you belong on the fringe or with the person who wants nothing more than to be with you. With the people who don't want to share their firelight or with the person who thinks you are the firelight? Don't you pitch your tent with the person who you want to be your best for?

Hmm, as if that's even a question.

Pieces

I think one of the hardest things about coming to terms with Christianity, and in particular, Jesus, is that I have spent the last ten years learning that no one can really save me. I used to think that if I found the right friends or the right man or the right drugs or the right therapy, then they would push the magic button inside me and make me well. It took a long time for me to realize that that's just false. No one knows the answers, so they can't make you well. You have to make yourself well.

And getting well takes a long, long time. I used to be terrified of what people would say if they found out that I took anti-depressants for my anxiety. Now I don't care what people think. I know what I'm like without them--ten times worse. I remember coming home and lying on the floor with my arms spread out, staring at the ceiling because my heart ached too much to get up. I remember crying and lying there as stiff as a board. I remember staying up until three in the morning drinking huge glasses of rum and coke. I remember many things that would not be better now if I had not started taking anti-depressants.

The other thing I've found about my religion (and it makes makes me sad) is that nobody really wants to see or deal with broken people. This is mostly because they think that Jesus is like a sticker to a six year old--a one-stop shot of get well instantaneously. They think that wounds are kind of like skinned knees, not realizing that some wounds were nearly fatal. A lot of Christians want people to come in a box like Barbie. They think that all the pieces should be included, and if you don't have all your pieces, then clearly you are the cousin nobody likes who loses every nice thing she ever got, and no one should play with you. After all, you might lose their pieces, too. You might break them by association.

The truth is that we come broken. We come in pieces, and we have to learn to put ourselves together. Anyone who thinks there is no assembly required on a human life is fooling themselves. We come broken, and time breaks us even more. It teaches us to be hard and strong or it tears us apart. Worse still, all the pieces are sold seperately. We don't even come in one single box. Sometimes there are even extras. A human life is a horrible puzzle to assemble.

I've stopped going to church again. More and more, I find that there's nothing for me there. There's a lot of judgement for the person I am, but the person I am took a lot of breaking and putting back together. And I might be a mess, but at least I am a mess that I can say I came by honestly. At least I can face up to the fact that I am a mess. I'm tired of starting over in new churches, and I'm tired of going there and pretending I feel bad about things that I don't feel bad about. I'm tired of pretending I feel happy about things I don't feel happy about.

I'm in pieces more often than I'm together. That's the way I came. If Someone wanted it to be different, He should have built me that way at the factory.

What I Know

What I know:
I am in love.
God loves me.
God is love.
God loves everybody.
I am supposed to love everybody.
Love is real and attainable.

What I don't know:
The plans God has for me.
The future.
What everybody/anybody thinks of me.
Whether or not I love wisely.
Which parts of theology will prove to be true.
How I will measure up in the long run.
How the Earth was created.
Whether or not everybody goes to Heaven.
How many angels can dance on the head of a pin.

Which list do you think matters more? ;)