After a lifetime of hardcore atheism,
I’ve decided I want to believe in God.
I’ve decided I like the idea of somebody,
albeit an amorphous somebody,
who loves me
and watches out for me
and takes care of me
and has the power to make things happen
even when I can’t.
I have to make a real effort with this
because every fiber of my upbringing
shouts out that this is a ridiculous concept.
But a small voice inside me protests.
Damn, if other people can believe this,
why can’t I?
Such a lovely idea.
It’s worth working at.
So sometimes I concentrate and
smack down that nasty rational part of me
and make myself believe.
And I feel so comforted and protected.
I think for me, God is a memory.
Or maybe a wish.
God is everything I wished my father could be
when I was a child.
And in allowing myself to believe,
I give myself my father.