It’s been a crazy week (or three), and I’ve gotten behind on posting. I promise to get caught up soon.
But for now, I’m really going to put myself out there.
Today I’m going to deviate somewhat from the general sort of thing I’ve been posting on here, to talk about another kind of subject that’s challenging: faith.
Talking about my religion or lack thereof has been something you couldn’t get me to get near with a ten foot pole. At one point in my life I was a “Born Again” bible scholar who knew what “truth” was. Shortly after the scarlet letter of getting pregnant outside of wedlock and having a dear friend kill himself because he couldn’t change being who he was (gay) I was done with the church, as it was done with me. I had my friends who adhered to numerous faiths, and even a beloved misfit church in Portland that I loved to visit and called home… but outside of that I stuck to the cliché of being “spiritual, not religious.”
You see, I never doubted the existence of there being something there. My life has been far too, well, an adventure with some obvious hand guiding me, for me to doubt. I was on a crazy cross-country road trip with my daughter in 2008 in a car I converted to run on waste veggie oil, 13,000 miles in two months–and we were always taken care of. Something in my gut would tell me to check out this farmer’s market, and an hour later we were on our way to stay as honored guests at a beautiful off the grid farm in Vermont. The car would be breaking down, and *just* as I was slowing down on the shoulder a dear friend called to see if I needed any donations for the trip. I needed this money, badly. I was down to my last $5. Somehow, I was always taken care of, just in the knick of time.
Betty, our old single tank WVO Mercedes on the first major trip we took her on.
Some of the stuff I’ve seen and experienced sound like I made them up. After a while, I start to doubt them and believe I did. Then someone will remind me, like my mom telling me that when I was in first grade I said that I would be a single mom to a little girl when I was older, and would draw a little girl with short, dark hair holding my hand. Somehow, I knew I would have her, and only her.
My Olive, at nine years old.
“Why bring this up now?” you might ask. Well, it happened again today, as it has been for weeks.
This morning I had a conversation with my dear friend who owns and is selling the house I’ve been living in this last year. At the end of this month it’s time for me to find a new place, and this threw me for a bit of a tail spin. I’m just launching a business and battling with the high start up costs of getting the proper gear and tools that I need. Where would we go? How would we deal with not moving my daughter? I had been planning on travelling part time for work on the west side of the Cascades (Portland, Seattle, Vancouver and the rest) part time and editing the work at home.
Then, out of the blue, just now a friend Skypes me from India to see if I would be open to house sitting for her through the Spring. Her house is in Olive’s elementary school boundary. I will save quite a bit of money while helping her, and will allow me to travel for work. I had told no one.
The minute I start to doubt, I experience a moment like this.
I sit here now, humbled. Grateful.
Also, my dear Mike who ended up in a coma is out of the ICU and making great progress. Beating the odds.
There’s quite a bit to the story that I’m leaving out, but I fear it could overwhelm the reader as much as it’s overwhelming me so will leave it here for now. I still don’t claim to know the truth of know the exact nature of God or the Universe or whatever you wish to call that, well, concept/thing/idea… I just know that every time I let go that something catches me. That somehow there is a purpose to my life pushing me forward. And that I’m not alone in this.
Whoever you are, you are loved. You deserve to be loved just because you exist. You are no accident, and there is a reason why you are here.
Let go.
Thanks to all who remind me of this when I forget.
