I’m wrestling with my faith
I’m not an overly religious person. You will not find me in the church pew every Sunday. My name is not listed as a nursery worker or as the person in charge of flowers for the altar.
I didn’t grow up in the church. My father was raised Catholic; my mother, Southern Baptist; and, with that said, I didn’t see the inside of a church until I was in my early teens. From that point on though, I understood my insignificance in the grand scheme of the world all the while recognizing His steady hand throughout my life.
I end each day by giving Him thanks for everything He has given and everything He hasn’t, because I know it’s part of His plan. I ask in return that He keep my family safe, happy and healthy. So, I think God and I have a pretty good relationship, but we all know on occasion He likes to slip one in and make us stand up and take notice.
For me, that happened Monday when I dropped the two youngest off at pre-k.
On Monday when I signed Mia in, her teacher, Ms. Renae, was at the cubby box getting ready for the day’s activities.
A smattering of boys and girls were at activity tables patiently tracing out their names — the majority stared hard, eyes front and mouths set hard as they concentrated intently on their tasks at hand.
As Ms. Renae gave us her “good morning,” his little head with its coal black bowl cut popped up quite suddenly.
This is probably a good time to point out Mia calls the aforementioned little boy, her “best friend,” and I’m not quite sure, but that might be 5-year-old code for boyfriend, because he’s awfully excited to see her in the mornings.
But that morning, he wasn’t his usual exuberant self as he looked at us with solemn eyes.
“Ms. Renae, do you know what today is?” he asked, and of course, she replied, “No.”
His answer quite shocked us both. I was expecting someone’s birthday or maybe he had been chosen as line leader for the day, so when he answered, I was floored.
“It’s Judgment Day.”
He delivered deadpan, with no excitement in his voice.
I looked at Renae; she looked at me.
“Oh my,” I said, reflexively making the sign of the cross, remembering too late that I’m not Catholic or Episcopalian, for that matter.
“They’re on their own; I’m going home to pray,” she said jokingly.
“It can’t be Judgment Day. I’m not ready,” I said half-heartedly, realizing quickly the intent of his comment was to notify us of the impending WWE wrasslin’ match — not of the second coming of Christ.
But I realized we all “wrassle” with becoming the person God intends for us to be. We all struggle everyday with trials and tribulations of this thing called life, and one day, we must all be prepared for our Judgment Day.
I plan to make ready. I just pray to the good Lord above it doesn’t come on the day I’m wearing spandex tights and a sweat band … golly, how tacky would that be?