Last week I was listening to a beautiful song called “Remember Me as a Time of Day” by Explosions in the Sky and someone asked me what time of day I was. I said that I was the dark night of the soul. I recently texted three people that although God had been the anchor of my soul for as long as I could remember, the pivot of my personality, I no longer felt any desire to fight for my relationship with Him or any conviction that He was even real.
This huge confession left total emptiness in me for putting it out there. No regret or shame or sorrow, exactly.
Perhaps I felt grief, but it was a vast naked, empty grief.
I felt isolated, and understandably some people I reached out to didn’t know what to make of this sudden revelation. This huge confession, this apparent profound change in the person they had known me to be. But I couldn’t keep it inside. It felt like I woke up into a different world one morning, my landscape completely changed and something compelled me to try to describe it to a select few who might not think I was crazy.
What if my whole life had been built on a lie?
When I talked to my husband about it, who himself struggles with anger towards God, wondering if God truly loves people the way that we were raised to believe that he does. He had the most simple and profound insight that struck me when I thought nothing at all could.
He said that even if our kids couldn’t see us, or if they weren’t speaking to us, or didn’t believe in us as their parents, we would still be their parents. We would still exist. We would still be here. Loving them. Being ourselves. Making our own choices. Doing our best for them.
He told me that it didn’t matter if I thought that God might not exist.
This seemed … unexpected. But perfectly right and true. It made me smile in the dark night of my soul to think, of course it doesn’t matter if I think that God exists. Either He does or He doesn’t. It really doesn’t matter what I think.
My husband said if God exists, I know I’m His child, and I do. I also know that nothing can separate me from his love. He is more than able to settle all this confusion in my head. Much more able to than I am. I think that I will just stop worrying about it and let Him figure it out for me.
I’m in the middle of letting go of my need to try to struggle out of the middle, of yielding control. My answer this time was not every question is mine to answer. And that felt more than fine.
Amanda is an observer, savorer, poet, artist, mother, wife, and lover of beauty and life. Unexpected events found her family living nestled in the deep south woods within a family home built by her great grandfather. From there, she works as a freelance writer and photographer. Her heart is to live a life of acceptance and perhaps help others to see beauty in the unlikely through well-crafted words and photographs of lovely ordinary everyday moments.
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