I was raised in a home where religion and faith were a big part of every day life. At a certain point in my adolescence the mere habit of faith and church attendance turned into a personal choice that I had to make; I no longer had the luxury of blissful ignorance regarding my moral and mortal state.
After that point in middle school I struggled with my own faith and how to put it into practice. I can look back now and realize that my life was so easy that I could ponder life, and faith, and all those things that half of the world doesn’t even consider. I guess they’re too busy worrying about finding food and not dying in a war.
Over the last few years life has thrown a bucket of curve balls at me… exploding curve balls. Collapsing relationships, a tragic car accident, troubles in school, and life wore me down to the point of being bitter and faithless. I was mad at God and mad at the world.
Recently, through more life problems, I’ve realized just how far I’ve drifted. I’ve begun praying again, and not just halfheartedly flinging words in the pretense of prayer, but actually allowing myself to express everything I’ve been holding in. It’s liberating.
I’m trying to find myself and my faith again. I don’t want my parent’s religion, though I respect them for their faith. I feel that something in there is missing, a personal connection that I haven’t quite found yet; maybe it just doesn’t exist. I’m still not sure of who I am, but I’m learning who I am not.