I haven't been home
for a long time. Home, I mean, in a spiritual sense, since I've lived no farther than fifty miles from my geographical home
for several years.
My spiritual home has evaded me for years now, since we cleared the knots that held us to our church when I was fourteen. I remember only a piece of the scene--a still life portrait of the moment before we took the sword that tore the knot asunder. I seem to have allowed the rest of the discussion to drift off in the sea of my mind, rudderless in the waves. For instance, I would have liked to know what our Pastor looked like as he left our home. Was he apologetic, regretful, angry? What was the look on his face when we told him that we just weren't interested any more, that we couldn't make the kinds of committments that he wanted? I wish I could see it now.
At times I sail through the mists of my mind, half-heartedly searching for the lost fragments of that scene, in hopes that they might tell a story. The story, I think would be of faith found, faith lost, faith ignored, and eventually, faith not so much abandoned as just. . . left to its own resources--Faith acknowledged, but kept at a respectful distance so as to mimimize collateral damage should it suddenly come to life, gasping and lurching about.
Faith. It is always there, but I never talk about it. I'm just never sure what it will do. Since I cut ties with God ten years ago, since the enodation, I flirted with atheism but could never commit. Agnosticism seemed to fit, but only like a one-size-fits-all oversized sweatshirt. I'm going to have go back to my spiritual home--to find answers, find closure, and maybe even the kind of faith I can invite back into my soul.