Early winter

Perhaps I’m a fool for making this public. Perhaps my private conversations with God should remain just that… private. (And maybe I’ll make it private.) But typing on a computer now feels about as cathartic as holding a pen pumping ink into a lined journal. And I type faster.

I’m in the midst of a spiritual winter. I feel far from God. I feel far from everyone except for my husband and maybe close family. Jesus is real but he’s somewhere else. Not here. The Holy Spirit? I forget about and ignore him most of the time. I operate as a Christian atheist, confusing conviction of the Holy Spirit for general conscience — I’m that far gone.

I have some great need to know that I am loved and cared for beyond just my husband and immediate family. It shouldn’t matter. But it does. And really, if I get down to it, I’m seeking in other people what I should be seeking in God.

But God is a divine spirit. He doesn’t hug me, talk to me, kiss me on the cheek, or offer advice. Talking to God feels like talking to a wall — it’s there and sure, it’s listening but it’s cold, hard, and inanimate. I never thought a wall was one over God in the aspect that a wall is tangible.

Or so it feels. A wall hasn’t given me a Holy Word so God’s gone leaps and bounds beyond this inanimate object. But I rarely desire to read God’s word. It’s a struggle to stay interested. I read a lot about growing closer to God but it hasn’t quite happened yet. I have about two or three days when I feel like I’m on the mountaintop, where I could throw God a piece of bread and he’d catch it (one-handed, mind you, because my Jesus is athletic like that) and smile with all the grace of a good-looking, rugged European God (yeah, I don’t know what that means either but he’s athletic!).

I want to fall into a depression. However, I’m struck with the realization that it’s much harder to let myself feel depressed with a husband around than when I was single. I indulged myself in all sorts of music that fueled my gas tank of despondency and found solace in that. Why? Because depression, despair, despondency — they’re all familiar friends. I know those things all too well. And I’d rather be in a place of knowing than NOT knowing.

I feel useless. I feel as though my existence is pointless. My novel — that I’ve put so much time, effort, and hard work into — may go nowhere. I don’t have a job. The part-time jobs I’m applying for are in the retail sector and they’re unlikely to hire me from the editorial field. And nearly a whole year after I hoped I’d be holding a sweet bundle of joy in my arms, I feel like God has closed the door on that for a while too.