Part-time Heathen

I remember when I would look forward to Sunday mornings, getting up early to put on my sunshine speckled dress and best Sunday smile, riding to our spat and tackle church believing that I'd find you there consuming the nursery and brainwashing the masses. I was completely and utterly happy and therefore it was okay for you to exist, just like Santa and the Easter bunny.

As I got older and choices pulled on the strands of my hair I found that the moon was shallow and your face was fading. I skipped church on Sunday preferring to dabble in things less public, singing hymns to my veins. I remember kneeling on my bedside and begging you to make it stop, to push my mistakes out of my system and make me holy. I listened for some sort of answer but all I heard was the god-damn silence closing in around me.

I remember reading a passage where a prophet asks you to show yourself. You were not in the earthquake nor the hurricane, but in the whisper of the wind. This confused me. You seem to show yourself in death and  disasters twisting humanities army till they scream 'glory be to God, we are but worms.'

but once again I could be wrong, you could be up there laughing at my part-time prayers[pleads] and half-time life. Its just, my parents spilled the beans on Santa, my sister denied the Easter Bunny and I suppose life taught me to not rely on things not seen.



no offense.