The Many Faces of Faith

I used to go to church, and I used to love it.

The feeling of having something else to believe in, to have faith in, but life itself is unexplainable, it’s uplifting.

God is portrayed in many different ways in our society today, and he’s a touchy subject for some. 

They say that there are three different events in your life, three different times that you will give your heart fully to him, or believe in him even if you never have before.

1)   The birth of your own child.

2)   The death of someone you love.

3)   Your own death.

I never questioned God until I got to Junior High school.  My first year there was awful, and the years that came after the first proved to be as equally bad.  It was the first time I had ever realized just how mean people could be to one another.  I was picked-on and prodded.  It caused me to begin loosing faith in someone that could create people that treated others, that treated me, the ways they did.

Faith is to roll the windows down, chuck the directions, and deviate fearlessly from the origional plan. 

High school proved to be equally as bad.  I barley remember my first two years there.  I spent all my time keeping my head down, trying to avoid exsistance.  I was convinced that if people didn’t know I was there, they wouldn’t be able to find anything wrong with me.

About mid-junior year I met a boy whom, in the beginning, made my whole life worthwhile.  I felt loved, I felt accepted by his friends, I felt welcome in his home and loved by his family.  Being introduced to new people and new places, and escaping my sheltered little life once in a while, opened my eyes to the idea that there are a lot more people out there that I realized.  And they were good people.  My faith was re-built.

I’ll never forget standing in church that Sunday after he ended things.  I refused to sing, I refused to listen, I refused to participate.  My temporary sanctuary was gone, and I didn’t have anything left to believe in.  That summer I made mistakes, I stopped eating, I pulled away from anyone that I had been close too. I broke-off connections, new relationships, and let go of oppertunities until those people that I had let down found renewed faith in me, and convinced me to give faith one more shot. 

The only light in my life was the only thing that kept me trudging through it; my job.  I got through the day at school just so I could go to work and see everybody.  I was accepted when I was there, I was safe when I was there, I had friends when I was there, and I was good at something when I was there.  The only bad in people I encountered while at work was in the customers, and I found that with a smile and an apology, maybe a free pizza, I could fix that.  I could CONTROL something.  I could figure things out.  I was trusted with important jobs and could get them done better than was expected. 

The happiness attained from my job gave me the faith to keep going.

I could write my whole sob story on here but I doubt anyone has interest in reading it.  This blog is supposed to be about the definition of FAITH, so let's get down to the nitty-gritty question bouncing through my nervous system:

It’s a baby’s name, its an object, it’s an adjective, it’s a noun,
but what is it really?

What is it to you?

I would look it-up in the dictionary but to do so would be a waist of my time, because I believe that definition is wrong.  Faith is like the word “perfect,” it’s a universal adjective/noun/name/object/word/phrase whose definition refuses to apply the same to each individual persons lives. 

Maybe to you faith is hearing an uplifting song.  Or going into a test telling yourself you'll do fine.  Jumping out of an airplane with a parachute on your back, or talking to someone who has passed with the belief that they might be able to hear you. 

Faith is a name,

Faith is a feeling,

Faith is a wish,

To me, faith is something I can’t control completely, but my reactions to things can help it grow or fade dependant on how I let myself feel.  It's what keep me getting out of bed in the morning.  It's what keeps me trying to fix my wrongs and forgive other's. It's what gives me the strength to pick-up and move on when my efforts in life fail.  It keeps me looking for the good in people and accepting t hat there is always going to be bad, but the bad in people itself is another universal and personified definition that also means something different to everyone. 

Life is one big constant test of your faith in people, in events, in God, in anything really.   And the only way to get through it, is to have the faith that you can.  

To Live and Let Stand

"To remember and not yearn for the past, is to deny how you became."

Image borrowed from flickr.com

Just down the path is a pond that I used to go canoeing in at the end of every summer.

Off the edge of that pond is my second home as a kid.  I grew-up there with my best friend, and my second parents, who believed in anything I did.

In the next cul-de-sac is a house that another bestie used to live in, that I built forts in, played dolls in, and licked the bricks on the fireplace for a dare at a sleepover.

Behind my house is a park, newly renovated now, that we used to be spies in, where I played tagged, and found out that jumping off swing led to twisted ankles.  It’s where I got asked out by my first boy, and the paths around it are where I leaned not to rollerblade when walking your dog.

I have invaded the library down the road many boring summers.

The pool in my backyard has seen many games of Marco-polo and mermaids.

The sidewalk down the street watched me and a friend fly off my electric scooter.

The park a-ways-away has seen us crush berries and jump off stones, and creep on skater boys.

The pothole that forms every winter down the street has it out for the frame on my car.

The playground at my elementary school was dominated by the four musketeers many years ago.

The girl’s bathroom in that school up the hall from the lunchroom has seen the braveness of a janitor named Norm, as he rescued a helpless fairy doll.

The corners of those streets saw two young patrols, one a great captain, one always tricked into caller, keep its children safe.

The pizza shop up 42 saw an outstanding crew, and a group of friends and memories that were the sole reason I made it through high school.

A house in Lakeville saw a group of kids who needed a break form life once in a while, supplied by two people who always cared about them.

A dirt road in Prior Lake saw spinning cars one night, twirling around in the gravel with scared, yet excited passengers.

The taco bell saw them many nights after work.

A look-out called Trout run saw me through the times that I needed to be reminded that the world is so much bigger than me.

The caribou down the road is where I met with friends to talk about life.

And my bedroom is the picture of my personality, my sanctuary.

I could write so many more memories.  That flicker through my brain as I realize I’m leaving my home this summer. To truly move onto something new, somewhere new.

Everything I know, everything I love will always be in this town.

All my memories, all my pieces.   This place BUILT me.

And I don’t want to leave it.  Or the people it still has.

I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like, to not be able to come back to my old house in a year.  To not be able to walk in my own room.

I can’t walk into the pizza shop I loved nowadays without being told to leave  if I don’t plan on buying anything.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me that makes these kinds of connections with the places I’ve been, if I’m the only one who has this much trouble letting things go.

It seems sometimes, like it is just me.

Wake me-up, Arizona.