God is love. That is the basic premise on which I build my life. Even when I feel nothing and doubt everything, I know that I am loved.

Except, it isn’t exactly that easy, is it?

I was talking to a friend of mine, M, who’s losing her faith. Slowly, to be sure, but bit-by-bit she’s letting go. The Protestant megachurches she attends are fake, and she feels she is too. I admitted that sometimes all I have is the knowledge that God loves me.

She said, “But I don’t know that for sure. I don’t have proof.”

And all I could say was, “Really?”

Proof. Do I have proof? Well, I think so. I have had many answered prayers, both tangible and not. But I don’t keep track, I don’t write them all down on a list of evidence. (Maybe I should.) But when challenged, I’m dreadfully unprepared.

“I mean of course, there is the Bible,” she continued, “but that is only proof if you believe already. I don’t feel anything, so there goes that.”

“Never an answered prayer? Never that sense of warmth, of blessedness?” No unexpected sunshine when you’re cold, no brightly-colored flowers by the sidewalk on a dreary, depressing day? Has she never plead for help and had it arrive? Nothing?

“Answered prayers aren’t proof. That’s like looking at the sky and asking it to rain. If it does, did it rain because you wanted it to?”

You know what? Yeah. A little bit, yeah, it did! Say my mother is ambivalent on taking the scenic route versus the highway and plans to pick whichever has the least traffic, and say I ask her to take the prettier path. Say she does. Then, yes. She might have driven past the lake anyway, but it’s still a gift to me. It’s still a blessing.

“But rain isn’t enough to get me to believe in something like that.” Stinker!

I mentioned this conversation to an Orthodox friend, who basically said that M and I are speaking different languages. For one thing, every individual Protestant more or less makes up their own doctrine. So I need to understand what she believes before we can completely communicate about faith––especially since Protestants have some really strange assumptions that lead to some wacky doctrines. For another, “Western faith is based on intellect, whereas Orthodox faith is based in the heart.”

M says her faith is intellect-based because she has no feelings to substantiate it. (I rather think that if she did she’d just tell herself she was fooling herself, but I’m feeling rather dry and snarky at present.) She claims she’d accept feelings of love as proof if she had them.

So, me being the smart-aleck that I tend to be, asked her how she’d want God to show His love for her. And she, being the smart-aleck that she is, replied, “A little note on my bed-side table would be convenient.”

But I don’t actually think that sort of proof would be a good thing. I think faith has to be a personal thing, a gift we give based on our personal relationship with God and on our free will to choose how we live our life and what we believe. Now, there have been some really stellar examples of God giving someone a wake-up call. Saint Paul is one of my favorites. “Do I have your attention now?” Even so, there’s still the element of choice. Saint Paul could’ve gone, “Nope, lemme just go torture some more Christians and I’ll call you back later.” He didn’t, thank heavens, but he had that option. But if there were some sort of impersonal, objective, undeniable proof of God’s existence, then how would there be faith?

As for my Orthodox friend’s final suggestion? “Hey, maybe you could take her to a Greek fest sometime. Dancing, music, food––if that is not an expression of God’s love, what is?”

Thoughts?

St. Paul’s Letter to the Philippians 4:4-9

“BRETHREN, rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let all
men know your forbearance. The Lord is at hand. Have no anxiety about
anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving
let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which
passes all understanding, will keep your hearts and your minds in Christ
Jesus. Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable,
whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is
gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of
praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and
heard and seen in me, do; and the God of peace will be with you.”

My beloved mother sent me this in an email a few months ago. Just this. I am amazingly blessed to have her.

I saw wedding pictures online today. They were beautiful. I rarely see pictures of Orthodox weddings, and this one was unusually lovely.

I didn’t know the bride or groom. They’re a gorgeous young couple who look like wonderful people, but I’ve never met them. Many of my Orthodox friends know them well. I know one of their bridesmaids, and I know or have met many of the attendees.

I don’t…I don’t want to whine. I am not intending to whine. So please, if it seems as if I am whining, tell me. I’ll try and rephrase to make it clear that I’m only trying to understand. Understand what? Well. That’s a tricky one.

I suppose the question is, “Why don’t I know them?” The couple, I mean. If I were a part of the Orthodox youth clan, this magical national group of people who know each other through church camps and conventions and babushka’s-neighbor’s-daughter’s-birthday party, I probably would know them. I’m not saying I’d be invited. (Guest lists have to be slim.) But I’d know them.

I did not have social skills as a child. (Some would argue I still don’t.) I didn’t have siblings, I homeschooled sometimes, I hung out with adults too much, and I moved a lot. I didn’t like to be teased, but was I ever an easy mark! I was the littlest of the big kids, and I was annoying to boot. So I didn’t fit in much.

And yet…if there’s a single community anywhere that I want to be a part of, this is it. This has always been it. I don’t mean I want to be best friends with that specific circle of people, although I’m terribly fond of the ones I know. It’s just that I can’t think of a group of people I like more than the Orthodox youth clan I know. They’re kind, and trustworthy. I feel safe around them. Even at my college–which anyone can tell you I love fiercely–I don’t necessarily feel that safe. I love the people there. They matter so much to me. Still, I don’t trust my classmates to notice if I’m hurting, to steer me away from dumb decisions, to keep me accountable when I skip church. That’s not to say they wouldn’t. But I won’t depend on them for that.

So. Whether because I moved a lot and wasn’t around, or because I was a brat, or for some other unknown reason, I was never completely a part of that “magical clan.” Now I’m less of a brat, and I live in Chicago–where there has to be hundreds of Orthodox youth–and somehow I’m still left out. I don’t make it to OCF much. I have a hard enough time making it to church even half the Sundays. I still feel awkward talking with people my age or slightly older. (Hand me a toddler or introduce me to an adult and I’m probably fine.) I’m here. I have the opportunities. I’m no longer intolerable. Nevertheless, I am still not a part of that community.

So maybe the real answer is I’m just scared.

I’ve been reading a lot of Orthodox blogs lately, and I stumbled across this gem of a story on Ramblings of a Single Dad (donva.blogspot.com).

*

One evening an old Cherokee Indian told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.

He said, “My son, the battle is between two “wolves” inside us all.

One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.

The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

*

I’m sorry for not blogging much lately. I’ve been living, which is interesting. I go to classes, I read Aristotle & Homer & Hobbes (both Thomas and Calvin’s), I work about 20 hours a week, I feed my Doctor Who and Dexter addictions with friends, and I try to get myself to church at least every two weeks. It’s…nice. I like living. I always have, but with this complicated, bountiful schedule––I don’t even know how to explain it. I just feel happy.

Please pray for me.

—

Also, please forgive me for not writing for a couple months. I had highly limited internet access over Christmas Break.

A conversation I had today. It worried me a bit. I once dated this fellow, and now I’m rather glad that relationship’s been over for a while. His views on parenting are…well, not mine.

We started out joking about parenthood, because he said he’d never shell out $10 for a half-hour swimming lesson.

*

D: I would LIKE to think that I’d be a fairly lax dude.

Me: I hope not too awfully so.

D: Eh, possibly. I mean, I believe in people making mistakes.

Me: Of course. It’s just, most kids of strict parents manage to break away. most kids of overly lax parents end up staying undisciplined and self centered. From what I’ve seen anyway.

D: This may well be true. But I prefer to think of it as independance

Ding-ding-ding, warning bells are ringing.

Me: Independence is entirely different. (pause) I’m not sure what you mean, to be honest.

D: Well, if they are undisciplined and self centered, maybe they just always will think for themselves rather than following any other standards. And maybe that’ll work for them.

Me: I doubt it. Lack of discipline often means being unable to meet one’s own goals, and self-centeredness is obnoxious and leads to inability to hold good relationships–which for most people is a part of happiness.

*

Am I wrong here? 

My mom has always been so different from the “lax dude” D aspires to be. I was always allowed to screw up without feeling like I’d failed her or some such nonsense, and yet certain things were expected. I had to keep my promises. The world didn’t revolve around me. She didn’t say “yes” all the time––and when she did, it was often a “yes, but wait.” I remember waiting a full year for a My Sized Barbie, and as for mixed vegetables…well. I’d always ask for gum at the gas stations, and she’d almost always say no. If she’d said yes more often, I’d have felt entitled to treats. Shoot, I already felt entitled. It’s funny; now, even though it’s been a decade, she still offers me gum most times when we stop. It’s cute. 

I could take the classes I wanted and the extracurriculars I chose, assuming it wasn’t a huge inconvenience–and mostly, she’d go out of her way to help me. But she made it quite clear that her job was not to ensure my happiness, and that the world didn’t revolve around me. she cared. she always listens–maybe doesn’t give in, but listens.

I always thought the kids with lax parents seemed to feel the world was their litterbox. I prefer my mom.

She has always treated me like a person.

I hate this cycle. You know the one. Or, no, probably you don’t. It is somewhat unique.

“We’re moving!” Mom would announce––it happened regularly.

“We’re moving!” I’d tell my friends. I’d prepare for it. I’d separate myself, say goodbye, get ready to move on.

“We’re not moving!” Mom would announce later–this, too, happened regularly.

“We’re, um, not moving…” I’d mumble. It was embarrassing. It got worse.

I’d never again really feel like part of the community. It wasn’t her fault. But it sucked.

Right now, I still don’t have a buyer for my car. 

Right now, I want to sell Frank.

Right now, I know that even if I get to keep him he’ll never be my baby, my independence, mine again.

In order to have a creative outlet and earn a little to help with my tuition, I started an Etsy shop–Philologia.etsy.com. I have one item listed so far, a “cheer journal”.

Front cover

And here’s why it’s a CHEER journal:

Inside cover

In case you can’t read it, the inscription reads, “Tribulations will come your way but be of GOOD CHEER: I have overcome the world. Jn. 16:33.”

That is the verse I live by. The reason I made the journal was that I’d had a terrible week, I’m having difficulty remembering to live by John 16:33, and my favorite necklace broke–you know, the one I’d worn every day for the last third of my life, the one given to me by my childhood best friend, the one I used to hang a pendant of the Theotokos…yeah, that’s what I mean by favorite. I thought I would cry.

But in a way I’m glad. I got to create something beautiful, something healing, and someone lucky will get a beautiful journal.

If this seems like the right journal for you or someone you love, it’s $12 plus shipping at Philologia.etsy.com. Someday I’ll make these just to give away, but for now I have to pay for college somehow!