I am tired and worn down. I am beaten on the inside out. My own thoughts and anxiety have turned my brain into a battlefield of guilt and rage and fear. I am tired of not believing everything really will be ok. I am tired of the foofy shit. I am tired of the judgment, of the politics, of the legalism. I am sick of all of it. But most of all, I am sick of my own lack of belief.
Belief in anything. Belief in life.
I’ve been struggling all day with my own worry over LB. I’ve been struggling with my hypocrisy as a Mom. My love for my child and the goals of the career woman inside me. I realized how I react to a situation first and think later. It hit me, today, as I called fourteen places for Lauren to go to that I had no clue what I was doing. I realized that there will be times in her life, and mine, that I will have to confess that I do not know what to do. I do not have the answers. I can not be in control. I am only the Mom.
Then, during episode 12 of LOST, the large, black lady said to Charlie, “There is a small difference between denial and faith. It’s much better on my side.” He started crying. I started crying. I sat and bawled. And bawled and bawled and bawled. “Help me,” he asked her. “I am not the one who can help you,” she said. Then she prayed with him. And I still sat crying.
I know it’s probably about as cheesy as it comes to turn off a TV show and be a blubbering idiot about life, faith, your daughter. I know it’s not really something that I would talk about on my blog. I know my past, as some of you know, and I know my present, which is evident here, and I know I don’t know what I am doing, or who I am, or what to think about lots of things. I don’t know what to tell Lauren when she asks why Daddy doesn’t go to church. I don’t know what to tell her when she asks where we go when we die, or why we’re here, or what happened to Mac and Buddy when we burry them. All those Big Issues, I just don’t know.
But I will tell you this one thing. Put aside the shit about Bush and Katrina and who did what and who said what and who didn’t call who. Put away what Christians think and what Buddhist think and why one is better than the other. Put away the stereotypes, the outward appearance of the rich, the judgy side of the “masses” and let’s be honest here. I don’t give one rats ass if someone thinks cussing would mean I’m going to hell. I don’t care if believing in God means I’m a big ol’ softy. I don’t care if belonging to an “organized religion” means I’m weak or that if I don’t it means I suck.
End the end, I want to have a large, black woman’s soul. One that is filled with peace. One that has faith. One that is Knowing and Kind and Not Judgmental. And, Jesus, if you could put that soul in a body like hers, well, that would be great.
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