I’ve always described myself as “spiritual but not religious.” I’m finding, however, that grace and transformation is found somewhere in the middle.
Detours are a fact of life. My worry and rage accomplish nothing because each situation resolves in its time. Sometimes, they even lead to something better.
Fear keeps trying to push me toward the safe choices. But that won’t get me anywhere I want to go.
And finding it where I hadn’t expected. With my Dad.
It is only when I am fully me and explore and exercise my passions and truth that I can do whatever it is that I am meant to do with this life.
Yet I still struggle with my belief that I’m not supposed to have it. So I returned to the source – Jesus and the Buddha to find out what they really had to teach me.
In teaching my nephew to swim, he would often struggle no matter how much I told him to lay back and trust me. I do the same in my life. But each time I trust the voice inside I find myself floating.
Having faith does not mean having all the answers. I need only to keep aiming toward the divine and trusting in what feels right, even when it doesn’t make sense, even when it seems contrary to how I thought I was “supposed” to live, and even when it’s scary because I can’t see what’s ahead.
My confession is not that I feel shame about being “white,” which I do, because that’s pretty normal in my social circle. Rather, it relates to my hurt when I’m called a racist.
Suicide will not be prevented by trivializing posts telling people they are loved and with hotline numbers. Here’s my experience both as someone who has loved those who have taken their lives and as someone who’s considered it.