13/90, Christian love song

There are times when I consider, not out of doubt or hatred or feeling of abandonment, only out of curiosity, what it would be like to leave my faith. What it would be like, more than anything, to accept that this is it, or maybe more precisely that it is all my fault.

I think of this, and then I think of you. You, giving birth to me. You, wrapping my presents on Christmas Eve, my birthday, just-because-days. You, running through a sprinkler with me. You, pooping in the tub the one time we bathed together. You, dropping the ring in my mimosa. You, accepting what I want from my life even if it's not what you were picturing, exactly.

I think of you, the time we have. I think of dedicating myself to you, what it feels like to not see you for a day, what it feels like to touch you in the smallest, most seemingly insignificant moments.

And more than an absence of Heaven, I worry that there will be an absence of you. If after this life of caring and breaking and falling, I don't get to spend the rest of everything with you, as some glowing entity or some pink bubble or some living painting, then I am lost. Then what are we doing? There is nothing, and this is what scares me the most.

So when I say that I believe in God or I believe in Heaven, what I mean is that I believe that I will be with you. Because I have to believe it. Because I find no other way to make these days possible, not when we're really feeling them. Not when we let ourselves be immersed in it.

Even if I concede that you are a blink on the Morse code of humanity, and I am a blink that followed, I would still believe that the dots follow for a reason, the two points of "i," an I am. This is my faith. This is what I believe, what I hold onto and orbit and draw my heat from. This connection to you and you and you.