I had two days of my spring break set aside to write on my novel. I was supposed to start two hours ago, snug in my little coffee shop on this crisp, cold, dreary day. Instead I am at my house waiting for a service man who promised to be by this morning. People suck. Yes, of course, I know that I could be writing here. But I am a creature of habit and a creature made of pure stubbornness. My plan has not had a chance to come to fruition, so I can’t do any part of it. I will wait until he shows or I simply give up and leave. Of course, that doesn’t mean that I can’t blog. Often that helps get me in the right space to write anyway. It also gave me time to do research on strokes for one of the characters in my book, now that was happy reading.
I was just reading the latest entry in my friend’s blog (http://lambentmind.blogspot.com/ [check it out]). His writing is very different than mine, but I often can relate to what he is speaking about. Plus it is just nice to know about his life. This particular entry was about the surreal strangeness of talking to his parents on Easter while they were going through their traditions of which he used to be a part of, and now is not. That strikes me often. How so very different life is that what I thought it would be, how different I am. I have very pleasant memories of church, religion, and all the traditional ‘rituals’ that surrounded me when I was growing up (all except those that constantly had me in terror of hell and forever told me I was wretched and vile, but, you know, nothins’ perfect). I believed in them all. Fervently. I don’t now, at least not in the same way. With the exception of when I hear TB’s teachings, I can’t even handle being in a church service. It all sounds so trite and overdone. I swear I haven’t heard anything new or truly thought provoking in years in a typical church service. Maybe one of the dangers of going to Christian school for so much of my life and attending church three times a week for twenty years.
Mom was discussing things with me over the phone the other day. We were talking about her love for me (which never ceases to amaze me how much my family really loves me) and about her fear due to the whole gay-vs-Bible thing. I told her, yet again, that I truly am not afraid of hell anymore, and that I don’t believe it is simply because I have suffocated my conscience, and that I still believe in God and love Him. Although I don’t believe He is the same god as He was presented to be from the pulpit and through some parts of the Bible. She confided that with that one exception that she could not picture anyone getting into Heaven if I couldn’t (I am paraphrasing), that she doesn’t know anyone kinder, more loving, etc., etc. She thinks I am better than I am. I only hope to one day really live up to her image of me.
I do miss absolute truth. Knowing things black and white and not having any questions. There was comfort in that, at least a form of it at any rate. Now I read that Bible and so many parts don’t add up. Things I never questioned, now are blaringly either contradictory or repulsive. The little boy who had all the answers who lived with the heat of the fires of hell on his back has grown into a man who has very few (if any) answers who rests comfortably in the belief that he will wallow in paradise.
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago