Strange how quickly the surety fades. Yesterday I carved out my niche at the coffee table with art, a full vase of branches and the smell of apples and I felt the absolute. Tonight I stand in the streaming hot water, letting tears mingle, pretending. That's what we do, see. That's part of what faith is, I am learning. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the hope of things not seen.
If you ask us, we are pretending.
Oh, it's not all playing house and dress-up, sometimes it's just wearing the cloak of grace and the mantle of forgiveness, or the armor of God. But it's a lot of pretending too. A lot of mustering up and reassurance and hoping and not seeing and still, somehow still trusting. I only know that sometimes it still feels like playing make believe, the deep, deep assurance that what I hope will someday be.
And I'm okay with that, if you ask me, I am okay with that.
I am learning to be okay with the lack of faith on days like today because it means that I am keeping that surface of me raw and tender, pliable and able to be taught and healed. Because with every hope voiced there is a bit of transparency there that is absent in the heart that has grown weak with disappointment. We stop playing pretend because we know that what we hope for may never be. So I'm okay with this bared hope and these bared dreams.
I don't know why I moved here, that's the truth. And I don't know how I'll make money or friends. And I'm not sure if I'll ever succeed in the ways I deeply and secretly want to, but I am sure that my imagination runs wild and that I do daydream and that I have high hopes. And I am sure that even on days like today where every step feels like a soul sigh, a forced reassurance, my faith is still being shored.
Faith is a substance, a physical, tangible act or thing. Sometimes it looks like yesterday at the coffee table. Sometimes it looks like tears at my laptop tonight. But it is faith the same.