I spent a lot of this past winter on my knees, praying. I’m not even always sure what type of God I believe in, but the fact remains that I believe in something and I needed help.
It seems to work that way, that in times of trouble you either start to believe more deeply or start to stop.
I prayed for help and for the ability to forgive and for kindness in my heart. I prayed that Steve would understand, that I wouldn’t feel so alone. The worst of it was only seven months ago, but it’s already more difficult to write about because I don’t feel that way and so I don’t really remember.
Two nights ago, Steve said something to me about everything that happened. He said he thought it had been his fault. He was bored at his job (he has since been promoted and changed locations) and he was restless. It had nothing to do with you or with any other woman, he told me, It was just something I was going through. And I forgot to tell you how much I love you for a while and eventually it made you question my love for you.
Like I said, things are much less painful now, but that was one of my prayers. Not that he would tell me it was all his fault, but maybe that it would stop being all mine.
And I guess what it brings to light most clearly for me is that, no matter what you believe, in God or spirits or light or forces in the universe, no matter what you call it, positive thought or prayer or meditation, it means something. And it does something.
I think that religion gets brushed by a broad stroke and those who are disinclined to pay attention to the Dogma wave God away with a quick hand.
For me, God is not church. God is in the sunlight through my window. God is in the laughter of my children. God is random kindness and that feeling of happiness that sometimes swells in your heart for no real reason at all. You can replace God with the word that best suits your belief, but for me, that’s it.