So, it's easy to wonder where God was throughout the various disasters, lost paths, vile turnings and traumatic moments of my life. I myself cannot help but wonder how terrible things can be perpetrated onto children--such as when my step-father sexually abused me in the bathub when I was 3, although he no longer laid his rough hands upon me in a sexual way much after that, and also just as my mother made her last attempt at beating me when I was 13, tackled me in my bedroom and soon realized she had taken on more than she could handle. So much horror is perpetrated against the weak, the helpless, the powerless, and the innocent of this planet--the very ones we are called as Christians to care for-- that I cannot even begin to postulate a theory of where God is. I can't. And that is not to say my faith is weak or that God has some explaining to do. All I can do is look back at my own life and find the blessings and kindnesses and bright spots, and say, There, God is there.
Because that is what I believe: that instead of standing around and tsk tsking about where the hell is God anyway when bad things happen, it is up to us to fix things and mend things and lend comfort and sustenance to those who are hurting. It is up to us to not commit wrongs upon each other, and to not intentionally cause each other harm and pain. For God works through us--that is how God's fixes things; he uses our hands.
I have explored many spiritual paths throughout my life. I was baptized a Catholic, because of my father's Italian, French Canadian, Mohawk background, but after he died I was firmly in the hands of the Protestants. As a child I was made to go to a mainline Protestant church that shall remain unidentified, and have, to this day, a Fear of That Denomination's Faithful. Thankfully my parents' own flabby faith saved me from having to go there too much, and they gave up on the attempt at making me go fairly soon after it started. Suffice it to say I found it to be a fairly cheerless place. I have vague memoires of learning about Nero fiddling while Rome burned, and the song 'Jesus Loves Me.' I spent one horrible Sunday as the nursery attendant, and was postive I left that assignment absolutely covered in boogers. I also remember my mother curling my long hair and dolling me up in Easter finery, while they barely managed to get out of their pajamas and t-shirts to get in the car and drop off me, bright and colorful as a little Easter egg. In their mangled way, they were trying to do the right thing, but even then I had a whiff of how damaged an attempt it was.
My mother had also tried to teach me to pray, to her credit. Bedtime prayers in which I asked God to bless my my loved ones, and I named them by name. She had also hung a bedtime prayer that glowed in the dark above my bed, though it is that one that is a little scary, ending with the lines, "If I should die before I wake....."
Beyond that, I took solace then, as I do now, in nature. I took solace in the companionship of my beagle, Cindy. I basked in the love of my grandmother, and enjoyed the times spent with my Aunt and her family. I also had a huge company of imaginary friends I spent my days with. I had an altered identity when I was with them, and they were all people who loved me, first and foremost, but who also were accomplished and talented. They treated me with respectful kindness. As I look back on it now, I think perhaps my 'imaginary' friends were truly angels, because I believe that if we can imagine it, it can indeed be a true thing.
Until next time, I remain, your friend, Rozenkraai
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