(I’m sorry this is just a journal entry.)

I don’t have a personal relationship with God.

I’ve seen Him weaving in and out of the pews of so many churches, in stained glass, incense on a midnight mass, felt what He might be like in all of my favorite things; a good book, nature, large bodies of water, the sky after rain, but I have never found Him in me.

That’s the whole point, too, isn’t it —the idea of faith is that you are supposed to trust, unbridled, in all that He is —let him lift you up from the trough of your sorrows so that you may be fulfilled with… however they said it; all of the things I’ve heard tumble out of the mouths of tired priests, trite and repetitive, their Sunday flock disenchanted with their weekly habit. A bold few raise their hands in prayer, enraptured for the moment, and I stare with fascination at their devotion.

But I do not believe.

It’s merely a humble speculation, a dormant and wistful concept that brews in the back of my chest. Sometimes I think it may be one of the most beautiful stories humans have ever told, but the narrow-minded thought that we could ever capture something so perfect and all-knowing into one book is entirely beyond me.

Perhaps a god is out there somewhere, in an indescribable form —tucked within the heavens, the cosmos, but with no plan. Just keen, watchful eyes.