My anniversary is coming up.
Five years ago I bought myself a Mother’s Day gift, The Secret, and took its lessons to heart: Ask, Believe, Receive. My first few requests were for mundane things: a better car, enough money, success in my career. But the book urged grander expectations, so I asked for answers. If we are created out of love, why is there so much agony and grief, so much senseless tragedy in the world? I wanted to know what happens after death. Do we come back? Do we cease to exist? Within two months my reality turned up-side-down. I was seduced down the rabbit hole, swallowed into Hell. Yeah, weird, right?
Clawing my way out, one raw hand-hold at a time, I rested for months in the rocky comfort of false belief—thinking I was home—that I “got it.” If I hadn’t been so riddled with terror, if I hadn’t first believed the lies, I wouldn’t have been forced to think. I would have carried on, ignoring the chasm between what my heart knew about God and what I was taught. Or maybe I’d have chucked the whole notion, again, and believed we live and we die.
The End. Fade to black.
I never would have paused long enough to look deeply at life.
I wouldn’t have fallen in love with it.
I’d have stayed hidden, asleep, never risking the bloom.
I’m approaching the marker now; the time I promised myself I would do it.
Write the story.
Wish me luck.