For a while, I used to hope something would change my mind. I’ve fantasized about finding religion in some romanticized way, like those washed up actors who suddenly have a mid-life epiphany. They spout Bible verses like everything finally makes sense.
I envied friends who never questioned how the universe works, how we got here, or where we eventually go.
I’ve opened up to the possibility of, “I don’t know what exists” and found that to be as cemented as I can get.
I just don’t believe in God. And no, I don’t need your prayers or suggestions on how to find the light. Because what I’ve learned is this IS my light. This is how I feel at home. This is how I make peace with the nightmares.
Now listen, I have my moments of spirituality. And I’m comfortable with the idea that I don’t know. That maybe deaths aren’t ultimate finalities. But I’m okay with that hanging question.
I never believed in a God, but at sixteen, it got even harder. How could I wrap my brain around something as inconsistent as a higher power when this power robbed me of my father? A truly good human being who lived a way I’ve heard referenced in religious ceremonies. Loving. Compassionate. Selfless.
Instead, I sit by his side and watch it disintegrate. Hollowed out body, his skin, his flesh shed like a snake.
I guess I cannot believe in God when he took my Dad, took him and left me.
To where? I have no idea.
And it’s okay to not know. It’s okay that I’ve made this personal decision. It’s okay that I like talking to my Dad like he’s still here. And not necessarily because I believe he is watching over, but because I think relationships can exist after death. And that doesn’t require religion.
The first time a stranger told me he was in a better place, I gently requested they never mention Heaven to me again.
There is no better place than my heart, my home. I don’t believe in God and I don’t need your help. I’ve found what I believe on my own.