By seven months I had been baptized.
By seven years I had attended more church services in a month than birthday parties in a year.
By seventeen I had separated myself from every religious tie that I had been forced into.
But here, at twenty one, I have found myself wishing I that I had succumbed to believing.
I made a move towards claiming spirituality today, though. I found myself praying for someone else.
I’ve fought countless battles within myself, arguing for and against religion over the years. I was born to a split household, a pious Catholic and a devout Buddhist had agreed to maintain their respective ideologies. They believed in their distinct beliefs; they believed in each other. They believed that religion grounded individuals and that Catholicism could ground their wild child, free spirited daughter.
It didn’t. It couldn’t.
And so for years I set God aside, only reaching out in times of need. How often did I find myself at my lowest, crying in the bathroom, sobbing in my tub, asking for forgiveness? For the love of God, God, throw me a bone.
He never did. Or perhaps he did, but by then I had shifted my belief into myself. Is impatience a virtue? Perhaps a sin.
I found myself saying to another human that I was praying for them today. I don’t know why I did. Or well, I know why I did. Because they believed in God. And if they believed in God, then I too could believe for them. And so I did. And I have never found myself more selflessly devoted.