I have always wondered, but I never have known how slippery the line between truth and fiction can be. I wonder many times if manufacturing small details of daily existence is a bad thing. I guess it is making our own truth. In my truth today, my dad isn’t laying in a hospital bed with his heart barely pumping, my research project is finished, and I have already published a well received memoir, and I no longer work at SBUX (pulling shots fr Howie). My truth exists inside my head; I manufacture it everyday. My truth is that I am not just a daily laborer at a coffee shop. My truth is that I impact lives, but I don’t really in the way I want to.
Interestingly, my relationship with God mirrors my truth maintanence. If I am having an especially truthful and well hemmed in day, my faith is strong, but if my day is unravelling and unkempt or frayed around the edges, I have a hard time being honestly in love with God. On bad days, I have a hard time being honestly anything besides mostly manic or deeply depressed.
This morning we had a speaker at church with ALS. His faith is strong, so much stronger than mine. There was a great sense of urgency to his faith. I couldn’t help but wonder as he drew a correlation between his illness and Jesus’ death if the common bond wasn’t their faith but their fear. They both face death, what do they have to lose? For that matter, what do we have to lose: ultimately we face death as well. I have no sense of urgency, though.
I see the close brush of death each day, but I still am not phased. That must be part of my truth.
Reason Breeds Insanity 