One of the main reasons I'm a Religion major is due to the fact that I brutally lost my own faith during the one time in my life I needed it the most. I don't usually tell the story to strangers, or friends for that matter, but every once in awhile I'll find myself reciting the whole bloody story like I had absolutely no choice but to do so.
A week ago I had my first Senior Seminar class. We were discussing topics for grad papers and all that when the teacher ordered us to jump up, announce our names, main area of interest and what propelled us into our fields. I listened to everyone's half-ass, "Yeah, and then I just sort of ended up here and now I'll graduate blah blah blah," and when it was my turn I found myself sharing the fact that my brother's deaths had more to do with my educational decisions than I'd care to acknowledge most days.
Suprisingly, I almost cried. I don't usually tear up when talking about it. It's been 5 years and I'm able to relive the details of that night and the ones that followed without breaking down or screaming, but the progress was hard won. But through the whole shitty ordeal my faith lingured some how. It hung on my a string until a pastor came to me while I paced the hall outside my brother's hospital room and told me that they were burning in hell. All of them. My brothers, my buddhist grandmother. They were suffering eternally. My faith snapped and so did I. The pastor was lucky I recognized his face was not the one that had stabbed my brother.
Today, in the same class, I noticed a girl obviously waiting for someone at the door as I got up to leave. She was waiting for me. I'd had her in other classes before and thought of her as one of the few that actually knew what the hell she was talking about and therefore was even more curious when she held the door open for me and followed me out.
"Can I ask you a question?"
I smiled at her, "Sure."
"You're the one that lost your brothers, right?"
"Yeah." My smile deflated.
"Can I ask when it stops hurting?"
I stopped. "You lost someone?"
She nodded but wouldn't meet my eyes. "My brother. Two years now."
We started to walk again and now I couldn't meet her eyes either. "It doesn't. They say it does but it really doesn't."
She nodded again as if she already knew that. "I thought so."
"I mean it took me 3-years just to be able to deal with it and still even now I find myself dealing with bouts of depression."
She nodded still but managed to meet my eyes. "I was hoping it just wasn't me."
"No. It's not. It's been 5 years and I sometimes can't get out of bed. If it weren't for my nephew I don't know what'd I do."
She nodded some more. "Thanks. I apologize for what the pastor said to you. My father is a pastor and he's not like that. Some of us aren't like that."
"I know. People are people."
"Good. I just wanted you to know."
"Okay."
"Thanks."
"You too."
A week ago I had my first Senior Seminar class. We were discussing topics for grad papers and all that when the teacher ordered us to jump up, announce our names, main area of interest and what propelled us into our fields. I listened to everyone's half-ass, "Yeah, and then I just sort of ended up here and now I'll graduate blah blah blah," and when it was my turn I found myself sharing the fact that my brother's deaths had more to do with my educational decisions than I'd care to acknowledge most days.
Suprisingly, I almost cried. I don't usually tear up when talking about it. It's been 5 years and I'm able to relive the details of that night and the ones that followed without breaking down or screaming, but the progress was hard won. But through the whole shitty ordeal my faith lingured some how. It hung on my a string until a pastor came to me while I paced the hall outside my brother's hospital room and told me that they were burning in hell. All of them. My brothers, my buddhist grandmother. They were suffering eternally. My faith snapped and so did I. The pastor was lucky I recognized his face was not the one that had stabbed my brother.
Today, in the same class, I noticed a girl obviously waiting for someone at the door as I got up to leave. She was waiting for me. I'd had her in other classes before and thought of her as one of the few that actually knew what the hell she was talking about and therefore was even more curious when she held the door open for me and followed me out.
"Can I ask you a question?"
I smiled at her, "Sure."
"You're the one that lost your brothers, right?"
"Yeah." My smile deflated.
"Can I ask when it stops hurting?"
I stopped. "You lost someone?"
She nodded but wouldn't meet my eyes. "My brother. Two years now."
We started to walk again and now I couldn't meet her eyes either. "It doesn't. They say it does but it really doesn't."
She nodded again as if she already knew that. "I thought so."
"I mean it took me 3-years just to be able to deal with it and still even now I find myself dealing with bouts of depression."
She nodded still but managed to meet my eyes. "I was hoping it just wasn't me."
"No. It's not. It's been 5 years and I sometimes can't get out of bed. If it weren't for my nephew I don't know what'd I do."
She nodded some more. "Thanks. I apologize for what the pastor said to you. My father is a pastor and he's not like that. Some of us aren't like that."
"I know. People are people."
"Good. I just wanted you to know."
"Okay."
"Thanks."
"You too."
Labels: Scholarly Articles of Interest
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