Father?

The closest I have ever come to believing in God (other than the ritualistic recitations of The Word in Sunday School and crayon-depicted images of a bearded guy riding upon a chariot of clouds) was on a brisk fall night. After returning from a Judgement House put on by Rachel’s church, we sat together on her bed in the dim light of the moon refracting though thin glass and a depressed table lamp, glowing gloomily. I watched her cry, so upset and distraught by the thought of not being with me in Heaven when we died together (presumably). After explaining why I didn’t—why I couldn’t—believe in a god, she looked at me with tearful eyes. As her tears brought about my own, she asked me in her beautifully sorrow-cracked voice: “What’s the harm in believing in something you can’t prove?”

Although not entirely convinced, I felt moved nonetheless, which was more than any mention of a Christian faith had moved me up to that point. For the next week I gave careful consideration to her words, slowly and graciously watching the leaves turn and the animals (humans included) interacted as the temperature declined, and couldn’t help but notice the orchestrated flow of winds, traffic, arguments or kisses and wonder who was conducting this spontaneous symphony. I continued feeling something for another week, everyday thinking of God and then feeling, thinking then feeling, until I became overcome with emotion and sobbed silently in the beautiful embrace of a world.

After calling a friend of mine and leaving a message in tears about how I wanted to truly get in touch with God, I felt quite strongly about my new-found faith. About a week later, Rachel became really flaky, and by the end of the most beautiful October I had ever known, she had stopped returning my calls. A fortnight later, she confessed her adulterous behavior to me. I couldn’t really react as she told me the news: I was too busy listening as God dissolved into a puddle of smoke and omnipotent fallacy. God was dead, and all that I found afterwards was a year of amazing beauty everywhere I looked, sharply truncated by an endless plane of dark depression and deformed landscape where the beauty once was. It is from that plane which I write.

I appreciate comments regarding the quality and feelings about this writing; however, it is not an invitation to open forum. I do not want to start a philosophical or religious discussion, nor do I want you to cheapen my feelings on the subject with your conjectures or analyses. I just wanted to share some of my feelings with you, my reader.