My faith is like a single thread, stretching up from me, into blackness I cannot penetrate.
It wasn't always this way. I used to have a rope; a golden rope, that I would lean on, pull on, use to hold myself up if I felt I was falling.
A slow erosion of reason wore against my rope, and a thread is all that remains.
So, I have a single silver thread, impossibly thin. Now I stand without aid, and without fear of falling. Still, I hold onto the thread.
Mass was held last night, at my son's religion class. I attended with him, performed all the usual rituals with him and the others in the church. I felt as though I had attached a cup to my end of the thread, and I had whispered into it, "Is anyone there?" I pressed my ear to the cup, and waited.
I'm still waiting, as I have always waited before.
...and will continue to wait, so long as a thread remains. For when it is gone, it will not be because I let go. It will be because whatever I thought it was tied to has gone.
Until another time,
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