(Mike Brzozowski's)
There once was a time I was sure. It's funny how faith works. As a kid, you believe in the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, Santa, and whatever other heathen gods your parents invent to get you to behave (or lose your teeth), without question. Of course there's a God-Mommy and Daddy said so, and the nice lady at Sunday School told me the same thing. As you get older, you start questioning some axioms-"why do I have to go to bed at 9, Daddy? Why do you have to go to work every morning?"-but somehow, that one stays firm. It was always comforting to know that, no matter what, He was still there, watching over us.
When did that stop being enough? I wondered as I cast my eyes over the calm gray sea, half expecting-hoping, almost-to see Jesus walking across the water to tell me. I wanted to pinpoint the exact moment my faith began to falter. The easy answer was the day I got the call. How could a loving God, who knows and sees all, do something like this to those kids?
No, that was too easy. I'd become increasingly skeptical with age I knew. The suffering of the world was weighing down on my faith, each meaningless death another stone piled on. But I held on to this hope, this belief. perhaps because I was in denial. Or perhaps because the alternative was too depressing.
I once was lost, but now am found; was blind but now I see. The final words echoed in my head as I turned back just in time to see her for the last time. It was in that split second that I realized just why so many people turned to faith in times like these. Either her life was a mere flicker of light or she would live on in heaven eternally. It's far easier to hope the latter, for it's so hard to say goodbye.
From the back of the boat, her ashes were thrown into the wind. They scattered, unrecoverable.