God

When I was a child, I used to read a lot of fables. For the most part, it did me good. I learned a lot about empathy, acceptance, and how to go about life in a kind, community-centered way. It also burned me quite a few times. I found myself orbiting around the “problem kids”, trying to extend a hand, trying to give grace to children who I knew deserved better than they got. I deserved better than I got. Sometimes it worked, sometimes the people I surrounded myself with lashed out against me, because hurt people hurt people. It was the right thing to do, though. There are no problem kids.

I became obsessed with the concepts of heaven and hell. I was raised Catholic, so these were real, tangible places that I would one day find myself in. And at six years old, I found myself analyzing every sin I had committed, and when I weighed my soul it was so much heavier than a feather—you see, I read so much, and consumed so much history and myth and fiction, that it didn’t matter anymore what was and wasn’t taught at my specific church. I started questioning “If so many people have worshiped so many gods, why should my faith be the real one? Why should my god be the true one?”.

I wasn’t a religious fanatic. Still, the dichotomy between good and evil, heaven and hell, haunted me. For a number of reasons, I was going to hell, no matter the religion. I could’ve assumed that meant freedom—I was no longer bound to any rules. I was going to hell anyway, so why should it matter? Instead, I drowned in it. Shame, guilt, terror, anguish. I was going to hell!

Then I started wondering what kind of god would let the world be such a cruel place. If God was all powerful, and faithful, honorable people suffer every day, why did He do nothing to help? Why was He so stingy with His miracles? I decided this proved He didn’t exist. Sometimes, I secretly think He does. He’s just a sadistic god. But I had a phase when I remembered free will existed, and if God respected it, surely, He would not stop evil people from being evil. He couldn’t; that was their human, intrinsic choice. We have free will to help each other. To main each other. It’s all us. Therefore, no, cruelty did not prove God didn’t exist. I remember I had better arguments back then, or maybe I just thought they were stronger because I was a child. Right now, my conclusions all seem flimsy.

In the end, I stopped chasing an answer. I don’t care, to be quite frank. When I die, I want to have changed the world—not The World. Someone’s world. I want to have loved someone so profoundly, I impacted their life for the better. To have written a character that resonated so much with one—one!—reader that it helped them hold on a while longer. God (ha! are you there? It’s me, Kate) knows characters have saved me over and over. To perform a minuscule act of kindness in the grand scheme of things. I want people to smile when they think of me. There He is, there’s God, in the minuscule turn of the lips. There’s heaven, in the memories of someone who loved me.

I still believe in free will. Though everyone has the aptitude to be cruel, I believe we’re fundamentally good. Yes! Even with…everything. Every single act of violence we now have constant access to. If we weren’t, and if it was all a matter of fables, and lessons, modern ethics, and religious commandments, paleontology would not show us examples of compassion. Sure, I’m no paleontologist. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe whoever came up with this idea is wrong. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Like faith, maybe this belief does not need concrete proof. I believe, therefore it’s true—for me.

When I’m writing (because that’s what I want my most palpable legacy to be), I don’t concern myself too much with moral lessons. I write mostly for adults. I want to depict messiness. And, at the end of it all, hope. If it’s a little silly story, but it makes a reader giggle, that is enough. I gave them, if not hope, at least three seconds of release. It doesn’t need to be deep, you see, nor monumental. God is in the details.