I don't know if I have any faith left in me.
This is a hard admission for a girl who was raised to believe in and respect something higher and greater. I spent my hours in a church pew, staring at a vaulted ceiling while the red velor cushions itched at the backs of my legs. I remember the lessons, well, some of them anyway. Be kind and loving. Be tolerant and respectful. Honor your parents. Don't hurt people. Don't judge. I've always understood that faith is a good thing.
But I have spent my first thirty years doing a lot of hard running and wistful thinking. Broken hearts and broken bones; my scars remind me of the narrow misses. I seem to be hard-wired for movement and most of the folks I know with any amount of faith seem better at sitting still. I don't know if I ever had it or if I just lost what little pieces I had along my way.
Am I running from faith or towards it? I simply do not know, but what I am certain about is that all of it will catch up with me sooner or later. I wonder when this body is going to give out. I wonder how long I can keep running while checking over my shoulder at every turn. Faith doesn't dwell in those kind of anxious moments, not for me anyway.
Sometimes, as I lay in bed at night, I pray. In the absolute darkness, I clasp my hands in front of my chest and whisper. I don't know who exactly is listening, but I hope that I'm heard. Maybe that is the first step of faith.