Good Or Bad, I Was One Of The Ones

I cannot say that I know what I believe or that I “definitively know” that yes, there is a God or that my God is right and yours is wrong.
I don’t know these things.
I don’t know if your God is stronger or mightier or that somehow, we’ve all been fed a narrative that draws us to believe in something stronger when we feel weakest.

I don’t know if we need to fight about the relevance or the existence of God.
But we do.

I know there are people who get insulted if you ask questions about their God or us logic ad ask for an explanation.
I am not that one.
I like to learn.
I am fine to learn about different disciplines and different scriptures.

I am not that one who believes that I am saved and therefore, I have to save you.
I do not preach or push because I never responded well anyone who preached or pushed me into believing what “they” believed.

I am not driven to convince and nor is there a need for me to have to tell you that yes, He has risen!
And yes, the only ticket to salvation is “this way” over “that way.”
Last I checked, I’m not working the door at The Gates.
And nor am I worthy.

I know myself very well. I do not preach The Word or talk about the Gospel.
I am not one who roots myself every day.
I do not leach my tongue or crucify my flesh on a daily basis and my morning does not begin with prayer, knees bent with the rosary in hand, chin downward, eyes closed with an attitude of humble prayer.
I cannot say that I confess nor do I promote that I have to confess with my heart and with my mouth and with my soul to The Great Almighty and thus; I have carry the truth to those who bury themselves in the darkness of their own lies.

I am not clean or cleansed and neither my heart or my history is innocent.
I am real. I am both lucky and unfortunate and above all; I am a living, learning and breathing entity in this world.
Or, so I hope.
I am no leader or teacher of The Word.
No, I suppose there are better leaders for things like this and there are more educated.
Yet, what I have in my heart is a thought and an idea and a regard for something warm and holy.
I love this.

I am not so strong, nor virtuous, nor am I stable, which in all fairness, I am just as imperfect as anyone else.
I am not better or worse than anyone else down here on Project Earth, —I am only different or unique at least in my own regards.

I have this thing in me, which might have been programmed or taught.
I don’t know.
Or maybe this thing in me is a drive to feel inspired.
Maybe there is this need to have hope that despite the darkness, there is light and hence; maybe there is a truth —that God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son; and that whosoever believes in Him shall have the light of life.
I want that light too, but the truth is; man cannot serve two masters.
We do that all too much down here.

And to some, this is nothing more than a highly exposed fairytale or a weak need to have something to believe in. This is something to hold while living around a huge and vast nothingness that surrounds us, like the endless universe.
How can anything be or exist if it was not created?

The truth is . . .
I don’t know.
I don’t know whether there was a Man so great that He died for us, or for all man’s sins.
No. I was not there to tell if this was true or just a rumor.
If anything, I am more like Dismas.
And like Saint Dismas, I am a sinner aware of myself because at best; I am a man who understands there are good and there are bad, —and somehow, we punish the good, which is why I used to subscribe to the belief that yes, “Nice guys finish last!”

And maybe this is true, —maybe nice guys do finish last.
Maybe this is because the good people or the so-called nice guys are not filled with the need for flashbulbs and cameras and fame and fortune.
Whether I can say that I believe or that I subscribe to any of the major organized religion is not really my point.

I know what it means to look in the mirror and feel contempt. I know what it feels like to look around with that taste of resentment on my tongue, —so much so that everything I said was flavored with sarcasm that bred from my own dissatisfaction.
I know hate very well.
We go to lunch sometimes, just to keep in touch.

I want to believe.
Or wait —
I choose to believe and whether I am wrong or whether this is no different from believing in the Tooth Fairy or the man o the moon—the so be it.
Who does this hurt?
How does believing in something good hurt me?
I know what I used to think.
I knew the dangers of hope because my hopes and aspirations were often poisoned or tainted by someone (or something) else.
If there was a God, then how could God let someone hurt me this way?
Why is there cancer?
Why do children die?
Why are there so many wars in God’s name
Or is God’s name just interchangeable with money, and therefore, is this why it says “in God we trust,” on the dollar bill?

There were times in my life, dark and sad or lugubrious, like the weakness of a gray cloudy day when the rain is too dreary and all else seems too equal to the dimness of a tearful sky.
There were ties in my life when yes, I can say that I saw the devil i the flesh.
Or worse, I saw violence that was ugly enough to make the devil, himself, tremble with fear.

I have been so low that I considered the ending of all existence; and I saw this like some kind of sadly unfortunate episode—but life would go on afterwards, right?
And so, I would no longer be regarded, nor would my emotional content be what it was because emotion would be gone and so would I.

I heard the name of an old friend the other day.
And I had not thought about this person since the last time I heard about how they died.
He was that one . . .
I am sure others thought about him.
I am sure that time without him moved differently for his loved ones than time has for me.
He died years ago.
And to be honest those years swept by like a fast breeze.
“Has it really been that long?”
One thing I know about death is death is timeless.
The clock does not exist anymore.
But we are here on Project Earth.
And the clock is ticking.

The Old Man died back on December 29, 1989
Mom died June 10, 2015.
Somehow, all that time past.
Somehow life kept moving and yes, time will always keep moving.

Here I am, that one.
My love has not changed nor has my regard for my loved ones gone away.
Time moves
Today is here and tomorrow will come, no matter what.
This is true,

There was a day which I remember and yes, this day was both recorded and reported in my very first journal.
I dropped to my knees.
I was weeping, hard, and my life changed into an uncontrollable mass of bullshit and heartache.

I looked up at the ceiling.
I remember praying with all I have, “Please, just take this away from me!”

No one to love.
No one to care for me.
No one to talk to.
No one to understand.

I cannot say that God saved me.
I cannot say that I saved myself.
All I can say is that I know in my heart that there is something greater than me.

I know there is something out there, like a purpose which I have in my heart and in my soul—and even if my purpose is to finish this entry and fade away, —then so be it; at least I fulfilled this,

Do I believe?
I do.
Do I have doubt.
I do.

Do I believe because I am weak.
I don’t know.
But I am weak.
Sometimes, I am weaker than a newborn unattended and hungry and vulnerable, crying out loud to be fed but Mother’s milk is gone and all warmth is far, far away

Do I have love?
Do I have hate?
Do I have sin?
Do I have the need to find something, whatever it is that “thing” may be?
Yes.

I remember seeing people sell tickets to get into Heaven.
I never knew that salvation was for sale.

I never knew that anyone of us, human or otherwise, has the right or the ability to make us hate someone for praying or praying differently to a God or an unlikely god and some godlike entity.

I went to kneel in front of a shrine of The Blessed Mother by the church at Point Lookout, —her arms outstretched, as if to be all-encompassing, and all-welcoming, warming and loving because no arms comfort like a Mother’s arms.

Blessed Mother, heal me, please.
I don’t care if this is crazy to believe.
I don’t care what people say about my beliefs.
Maybe one day, I’ll be strong enough to say that I don’t care what people say about me.
Maybe . . .

I agree with Robert Fulghum though
He changed the popular saying from, “sticks and stone may break my bones but names will never hurt me,” into something I understand
Fulghum pointed out, “Sticks and stone may break my bones, but words an break my heart.”

Thank you for this, Mr. Fulghum.
I can relate.

A woman at work told me that I look tough.
She said I have a strong and tough exterior.
She told me this is why people listen to me.

Looks are deceiving.

Blessed Mother,
I am weak.
I am small
I am a child in the grown body of a man still afraid of the dark or being bullied on the playground,

Tomorrow is Easter.
I do not say that I subscribe to the religion itself.
However, I do like the idea that love and that hope and that goodness is so strong that whether it was beaten and crucified, behold The Lam of God, the light, the way and the truth was never gone, —He only changed forms

I am not baptized nor am I deserving
No.
I am only a man.

Blessed Mother

Watch over me.
Spread your arms so that I can feel you love in my heart.
Force away the wicked and keep me from the secret bullies who smile to make me weak.

I am not worried about my enemies.
Them, I can handle
It’s the deceit from my loved ones that broke me at my worst

Heal me, Mother.
I am that one