Faith

The last two months have been a rude awakening.
I'm in one of the most secular cities in the United States, disrobed of all sorts of religious honors and responsibilities.
Stripped, my faith is now standing bare.

I do not recognize this unshod, unkempt and undernourished figure called my faith; she stares back impudently, her eyes glittering amidst her pock-marked face. There is no accusation in the boldness of her stare, just a calm dignity of truth and a deep excitement in being found. The shame is all mine.

As we stare at each other as strangers - familiar in our long-lost sisterhood - I begin to remember. The cut on her left hand - it came from the time I felt a prayer hasn't been answered and decided to stick her with the knife of blame. The clouds of bruises covered her since I've started to wield a stick called doubt in the name of reason. Disease and poverty has befallen her in my neglect; she's been imprisoned in my narrow-mindedness.

Yet I also remember the good times. The days when we sat together, Jesus, her and I, our eyes glittering as we discussed the future that speaks of peace and justice. She has comforted me through long, tearful nights and protected me from twin monsters of depression and hopelessness. She is there whenever I am with Jesus, holding both of our hands tightly. She never smiles as broadly as she does during those times.

We are on a path of reconciliation. I prepare her a feast of unerring belief in God's love, and clothe her in rich robes of hope in God's power. For a while, God's been asking me if I am willing to be a fool for Him - I give up my right to understand and watch her wounds fade away.

Her and I both know my failures. There will be times of feasting and times of neglect. It will be a long time until all her wounds heal, and longer still until the scars mend. But it's just not my hand she's holding - God's hand holds hers, His warmth radiates of love and His glance speaks of infinity. We are both safe in His grasp.