Me:

After  eight days of prayer, but not fasting, my mother was nearing death. Did we have any problems with our faith the pastor wanted to know. I guess this is a typical question. No, I nodded. No, my sister nodded. A problem with our faith? Was this the first time that something bad had happened? Had God ceased to exist then? Was this the first time he had said,"No"? Had he ceased to exist then? No, no problem with our faith...God is there and our mother soon will be not. And then she was not. It was inevitable, predictable, unstoppable.  I knew it would happen someday, and now the details unfolded and knowledge opened a crevasse. This is how you have lived your life. This is how your mother dies. This is how it feels. Now, you know.

A minute, an hour, a night, a day passes. Many days pass. Another full moon appears. More time to spend, lungs breathing and heart beating, mouth chewing, swallowing, living alongside death, contemplating the commandment that no longer applies: You shall honor your father and mother. Did you read the cartoon?

Calvin: Look, a dead bird.
Me: (Look, a dead mother).
Hobbes: It must have hit a window.
Me: She died of septic shock.
Calvin :Isn't it beautiful? It's so delicate. Sighhh...Once it's too late, you appreciate what a miracle life is. You realize that nature is ruthless and our existence is very fragile, temporary and precious. But to go on with your daily affairs, you can't really think about that. ...which is probably why everyone takes the world for granted and why we act so thoughtlessly. It's very confusing. I suppose it will all make sense when we grow up.
Hobbes: No doubt.

I find myself in a bookstore in the spirituality section. (It's near the coffee section). I see C.S. Lewis' A Grief Observed. I sit down on the bench in front of the magazines.  I'm disappointed to read the blurb which says that this giant of a faithful man almost lost his faith when his wife Joy died. Really? Seriously? This can't be true because I have my faith and I'm no famous Christian apologist. Was this the first time something bad had happened to him?

I read the book anyway, letting my hair fall down the sides of my face to hide from the other readers in the magazine section. Later I tell my sister that I read the book. And...? she asks. I don't know, I don't remember, maybe I should go back and buy the book. I come up with a brief synopsis. He said that grief  focused on ourselves. It was all about us. He found the most relief from his sadness when praising her or praising Him.

I had to agree that I spend an awful lot of time navel gazing, which leads me to think about umbilical cords, to imagine that I grab hold of that long gone attachment and pull myself towards my mother, an astronaut in a white suit, orbiting my world, in space, among the stars. Still tethered to the source of my self, I want to touch and hear and see and speak to her. Immediately. If only I could reach her.

 I know God exists, no doubt about that, but I don't know why and I find it hard to care about my part in the solar system.  Perhaps that is my crisis of faith.