Random, Aimless and Unplanned – The God Thing

I can’t say that I know for sure about what’s out there.
I don’t know if there’s an Old Man in the sky with a long gray beard or if there is a loving mother, as in Mother Earth, or as it is depicted in pictures, the Loving Mother, as in Hail Mary (full of grace, the Lord is with Thee) and I am unsure what I think about who has the rights to reserve which god is right or wrong.
I do believe, though.
I’m not sure why or what I believe in. I’m not sure if I believe because I like the idea of being absolved or heard while at prayer. Perhaps, maybe I believe because the opposite of belief is too grim for me to consider.

First, I have to say that my reason to believe is not because a so-called “man of God” is up in front of some holy podium and telling me that I have to repent or resolve my sins to find salvation.
No, I don’t believe because I’m told to.
I want to . . .
I understand the atheist. I understand agnostics. I get that the scriptures have their place and that there is something beautiful about the ideas of redemption or loving thy neighbor.
I love some of the stories I have read from the bible.
I like what I have read in the gospels and yes, I have read my fair share, which is not to say that I can quote with the best of them. No, this is not my profession nor is this something that I can say that I have an authority with. But when it comes to God or the belief in Him/Her, or whichever the case may be, I can say that I have my own belief and that I love what I believe.

I believe in something. And I believe because I like the idea of hope. Then again, I like the idea of Santa Claus. I like the ideas of the Tooth Fairy as well, which is not to link them to the Holy Spirit or to insult the masses of believers.

I understand the ideas of godless thought and the sense of irredeemable ways, which are aligned with how I’ve felt about the people I love who have gone or passed away.
I get it.
There are times and places, and things which happened to cause me to say that there is no God.
I said this often enough in the pediatric ward of the cancer wing.

I understand that the mind likes to hold things, like, the grip of a memory which is a great way to keep someone alive.
I do this often, but perhaps I don’t do this often enough.
But who knows?

I can say that I have seen losses in my life. I lost my Father, The Old Man, when I was young. I lost my Mother to five diseases in her spine, and as her healthcare proxy, or as the person who had to sign the papers to take Mom off from her life-support, I can understand the harsh cruelties of how life can be here at one moment, and gone in the next.

I do not care to bore the world with my ideas about God or argue if God exists or if my God is better than yours.
All I know is that there are times when I do find myself in the quietness of night—and yes, I do find myself in moments of prayer, or perhaps this is me talking to myself in the guise of addressing The Great Unknown, or my version of belief.

Either way, my beliefs are very real to me. And my comforts and the answers, which have appeared to me, as a means of some random visit of, say, a butterfly where butterflies never go, or stories about the ladybug sightings out of nowhere, which took place at a spot where ladybugs never go and, of course, the ideas of cardinals owning a special meaning to represent a visitor, and whatever other forms might come — I admit that yes, I like these ideas.
I hold them close to me and, yes, I get that perhaps this is no different from a child holding a teddy bear close to the chest to find a sense of comfort and warmth—but guess what?
I see nothing wrong with this. I see no problems in finding solace in whichever way we turn.

I do not preach. I do not impose.
I am fine to believe what I believe, even if this is opposed by anyone or everyone. At least, I have what I have to help keep me sane.

I think about the version of sunflowers and what this could mean to someone special. I think about a tree, like the weeping willows, and how I associate this with a dream that Mom had before she was really sick.
Mom loved her weeping willows.

I think about life and I think far too much and far too often to the point where overthinking has become a normal fiasco to me.
I think about the warmth of Christmas and a chapter I read in Fulghum’s book when he regarded his wife while looking at a Christmas catalog. I think about my vision of him in his special chair, like an old man in his rocker, and how he looked at his wife and the love of his life, and how he realized that he had everything he ever wanted—or, if I’m being honest, this was my take and this is my perspective of something he wrote from his heart.

I do not know what is out there or up there or if this is all a man-made theme to keep people moving in a good, orderly direction. By the way, the idea of good, orderly direction is not made up by me.
I remember when I entered into this thing I call my sobriety. I remember the ideas I had about God were on the side of atheism or perhaps, I was closer to agnostic and slightly hopeful that, yes, there “is” something “up” there.

I was told that I needed to believe in God.
But, I didn’t.
I was told that there has to be a God because no one is as lucky as I was to make it out alive, or to not be dead or in jail, or locked in some institution and hoping for an extra Jell-O at dinnertime.

I offered my thoughts on God and I was told that perhaps I can allow myself the idea of something G.O.D. – like, as if to find a Good, Orderly, Direction.

I struggled with this. I struggled to believe in ideas that “God could and would if he were sought.”
I have doubts and fears and ideas that question beliefs of this kind.
Additionally, I swore that someone like me would not (and could not) ever be saved or redeemed, even if I were to seek redemption and to change wholeheartedly, I truly believed that I was damned to all hell (if there is such a place) and that I was simply irredeemable and at best, I was (and am) unsavable.

I can go over the different moments where some crazy phenomenon took place, and this was enough to give me goosebumps. This was enough to stand the hairs on the back of my neck, but in a good way.
But I will keep these moments close to my heart because I’d rather not hear the woes from the critics or the doubtfulness of others. I mean, after all, I was already told by someone that Santa isn’t real nor is the tooth fairy.
I don’t need anyone else to tell me that my beliefs don’t exist either.
No, I can say to hell with that . . .

I don’t know if Mom is watching or if The Old Man can see me. I don’t know if the so-called Man upstairs is happy or displeased or in my corner, despite my flaws.

I don’t know if the signs I see are like a child’s idea of how to hang on to things, like Santa or the Man on the Moon.

I don’t see any harm in my belief system. I don’t see any problems with my ideas of prayer. Most times, I plea my case. Sometimes, I think that someone might be listening.
Other times, I think I might be unheard. And sometimes, I think that literally, maybe God just said no . . . Maybe this was God telling me, “you’ll have to take it on the run, kid. You’re going to have to figure a way out of this yourself.”

Maybe God is telling me to learn my lesson because he’s tried to teach me yet, I refuse to learn, because my faith does not have the work behind it. And yes. I have taken advantage. I have done things that are wrong and undefendable. I have hurt some of the best people that this world has to offer—and if there is a day of judgement, I believe that I will have to stand in front of my creator.
I know that I will have to answer for what I have done—and in fairness to the truth and with full disclosure, my answer is simple.
“Selfish, self-centeredness,” is definitely the root of my diseased thinking.
I am a coward in some regards. I am a child in others.  I am selfish too.
I am no different from anyone else, really, except for the fact that I am being honest about the sins from my past and the justifications which, before I go onwards, it is best to be clear that justifications only rationalize an irrational thought or action, and in all truth and honesty—no rationalization can justify the wrongful acts, of a scared man, cowardly as ever, selfish, and solidly imperfect.

Hence, my confessions are real and true. While I cannot say that anyone, including a man of the cloth can absolve me, nor can I account for all of my sins or claim an honest or true sorrow for them in every occasion—I know me quite well.
In fact, I sit with me every day. I face my consequences in the mirror, each night, before I go to bed.
I notice my levels of instability, or how I make the same mistakes and fail to learn not to repeat myself.

I am not here to say that I deserve forgiveness. And quite possibly, in some cases, I might not deserve to be forgiven.
But I do have the right to forgive myself and start over. I have the right to make amends. I have the right to understand and accept that sometimes, nothing goes back to the way it was. And that yes, things can be ruined and unfixable. But that does not have to mean that the rest of our life is ruined.
We might have to make adjustments. We might have to go our own way. But nothing has to kill us or keep us sick.

I had a word with the Spirit last night.
I talked about my ideas and thoughts. I talked about my dishonesties and my flaws, my sins, and the reasons why I stumble upon my thinking errors.
I talked about the reasons I believe that I am unworthy of anything more than simple misery.
I asked to feel clean again, or to be cleaned as if to be emotionally baptized and removed from sin.
I’ll have to work on this, if I’m being honest.
Nothing, not even The Kingdom of Heaven, is free for the taking without the efforts to reach the gates.

I used to associate my relationship with depression to the problems from my past. I can clearly remember being told by a doctor that I’m not depressed. I am too anxious. Meanwhile, another doctor told me I’m anxious because I’m too depressed.
I don’t know which came first, the chicken or the egg—and to be honest, I’m not sure that I care.

All I know is that I want to be better.
If at all possible –
One day at a time –
I want to find my way.

Maybe this is out of my hands.
Better yet, maybe this has always been in my hands and rather than work, I was expecting some power greater than myself to open the doors for me. Maybe they were open, but I never dared to use the efforts to walk through them.
Hence, this would mean it’s all on me.

No . . .
My God tells me, “You need to get off your high-horse and walk a while, pal!”

I am humbled when I live outside of my means or when my fork runs away with the spoon, and I am humbled when my eyes are bigger than my stomach and my heart is smaller than my words.

I am humbled now and in a fight for my life.
I am not sick and not well and somewhere in-between. However, I am circling around the sun, one more day, and hopefully, I get the chance to make things right again.

I know people, like some of my friends, who are Born Again, and others who are devout in their beliefs. I know what they say or they tell me.
But I also know the story about the tax collector and the Pharisee and how one chose to pray by the book. Meanwhile, the other did nothing else but beat his chest and look up to the sky while saying, “bless me Father, a sinner,” and then walked past the temple.

According to the Son of Man, the tax collector would go home justified before the Lord because at least his prayer was honest and from the heart.
The Pharisee complained and talked about all the great things he did and how he donated part of his wealth and how he did as the laws and the scriptures told him too.
But no one had to tell the tax collector.
He knew in his own heart.

Well . . .
Bless me Father, a sinner.

I might not go home justified before You today.
But at least I am one step closer than I was the day before.

Forgive me . . .
I’m just a man.

“I know, kid.”
“Just make today a better day, and we can take it from here, okay?”

Okay . . .
You have my word.
I will do my best.

“You always do, son.”
I know it