How can you believe in something you cannot see, feel, or touch?
And maybe uncomfortable is the wrong word.
Although I don't think the way I feel is inadequate--it is close. Maybe I feel less-than-good. And I'm not exactly sure why.
It could be because they have that unwavering belief in God--and if you read my last post (below)--that is something I do not have.
Speaking about my last post...
I re-read it.
And then I re-read the comments.
I think a few Christians commented. And a few non-Christians too. I have to say these comments, along with conversations that I had with friends and family concerning God and this post, came closer to making me feel there is a God than anything I have ever read, studied or experienced in church.
Someone reached out a hand in friendship, another privately emailed me and said they understood. Others reinforced friendships I was already proud to have.
I asked for a sign in my last post--an undeniable signal from the Big Guy himself. This is the first time I can say their was not only a sign--but a shiny banner repeatedly putting itself in my field of vision.
Does this make me a Christian? Or a person with an unwavering belief?
Not yet. Which is good because I feel a bit self-conscious even writing this post because Christians and people of unwavering belief make me feel uncomfortable. But I have to be honest...
It kinda feels neat thinking that for a change I could be headed in that direction...
Day 23 of 100 Unfortunate Days below. One part of a journey...
Once there was a little girl. She went into her grandmother’s special cabinet and took out all the scarves. Some were bright pink with gold coins sewn to them, some were square and some were rectangular, one had the bright eyes of many foxes, but all were silk. She knew the scarves were magic, and she brought them outside with a basket of clothes pins. She hung the scarves on the weeping willow tree in the back yard…all around the low-hanging outside branches, and formed a beautiful house with windows and a big door that opened and closed. As she clipped the last pin to the last scarf the house filled with gold furniture, and the fox jumped off the scarf and became her pet. She could hear music in her head and could light fire with her fingertips. She looked up into the night sky and she knew how old the stars were. Her eyes were the clear green of the ocean and she did not have to blink. She knew all the languages of the world and as she lay on the ground the earth swallowed her. It held her as she slept and in the morning she left her scarf house with the fox and went in to the woods. She took her pocket knife and carved her name in a tree that grew the wood that would someday form her coffin. She cut her hand on the knife and her blood dropped on the ground. A crow flew down from the sky and landed at her feet near the blood. “Go home.” it said and flew away. She followed a trail of poisonous mushrooms deeper into the woods and fell to her knees at the sight of the moon in the distance. She closed her eyes and went home to her silk house. Her parents missed her very much and her grandmother was not even mad anymore that she played with her scarves without asking. But she did not know this, and she did not miss them. She cut the lemon tart that was her breakfast and picked raspberries from the bush next to the weeping willow tree. One day she missed her parents and she went home, but they did not know her…she was not a little girl any more.