So often I think that this belief is all a myth. . . like any other in the world’s layered cultural history.
And I ask myself, ‘why am I in this at all?’
But when I step to that crossroads another question confronts me: “To whom else will we go?”
I consider my options: A lonely wandering in the gaze of no God? Or one of the myriad of other myths?
And I come back to consider my own.
And I feel the life my creator channels into me in every one of these shallow breaths, and I remember the story of our noble king who left his palace to come visit us in our homes, which got him killed in our dirty streets, and I think of the spirit that takes walks with me and quietly shared the weight of this morning’s burdens, every morning.
And I realize. . . I am so thankful that, of anything in the world, I do have this belief.