I was never a true believer, never had the time to completely understand or the maturity to grow belief. But reality has this way of breaking every one of those conviccions, stories of saved souls, of redemption and faith. You cannot blame me for cursing life and every holy spirit of the injustices in the world. You cannot corrupt childhood and expect loyalty.
They would say it was only a service, but the truth was the priest kept singularly referring to her soul; being loved, saved and always among us. And the mention of her name was tearing apart every wall inside my body, while flooding my eyes in silent transparent tears. It was no longer a phase, it was a state of never healing long-life grief. And the amount of people behind me just would not matter, the church, to me, was as empty as the service speech itself. No words could stop the storm above us, nor return the loss in our lives.
In some way, you feel betrayal in other people's faith. As if them believing was their commitment to an almighty party, responsible for looking the other way when there's suffering, violence and death. As if we should be thankful to a divine being for the love and health in our lives, but understanding i.e. tolerant of the unfair.
At eleven thirty, Sundays, disagreement would arise.
- My daughter will not go into that church with you to allure that big Lie that keeps you blind. I won't let you take her.
- She is too young to decide, she should be coming with me until she can choose for herself. It will only make her good, I want her company there as well.
Troubled eyes of disbelief hesitant of a decision too early for commitment. With a scaredly muttered 'no', I would turn around to my room, breaking my father's heart and letting him by himself. Not before glimpsing in his pupils the disappointment of a lonely Sunday path.
I guess I was never a true believer, because never did I feel myself grateful to believe in. And I guess your faith can help heal your soul; but sometimes, the damage is just irreversible.