The underlying hum of the fluorescent lights is the only sound in the room.It’s like all the air was sucked out of the room as we all stand there, our hands clasped tightly together, our eyes glued to the scuffed gymnasium floor.
I close my eyes and wait for the inner peace to come. Every Sunday, I close my eyes and wait for what they call The Holy Spirit to fill me. Every Sunday, I hope that maybe I’ll be able to convince myself this is all just a phase and then promptly feel the same glow in the pit of my stomach like I used to. Every Sunday, I don’t.
When I was little, I used to wonder how anyone could not believe in God. I never questioned the stories they told me, I let their words flow into me without hesitation. Now I wonder how anyone can believe. I find myself squinting at the hymnal, trying to decipher the words I used to understand.
Why can’t I believe? How does the faith my mother and brother and friends soak in simply wash over me?
There are so many things I don’t agree with in the christian faith, but all the same I’d like to be able to know God’s still there.
Every Sunday I wait, but every sunday I’m greeted with silence.