You gotta have faith

So that’s the lesson I’ve learned, along with speak softly and carry a big can of Cop-The-Fuck-On.

I never fuck on. I take the piss constantly. I get comfortable. Take my eye off the ball. And before I know it, I’m praying.

I had said I wouldn’t. Given my big faith decision last year, where I decided that I’m not an atheist because it denies a pre-Big Bang, pre-everything deity that created everything and not a Catholic because it involves too much smoke, mirrors and downright superstition, I thought I was occupying a fairly comfortable middle ground. Turns out I was wrong.

Because the minute my idyllic life began to be threatened, where I imagined an American break in October where everything is paid for except for spending money and I have no job to return to, I began to pray for delivery from what seemed like certain doom. Of course, now in context, with all the facts known, I can breathe easy.

But for a short while, it felt like I’d imagine an Irish property developer felt, locked in a toilet cubicle as his world crashed around him. He slit his wrists, it seems, but survived. I’d never do that, but I felt that feeling of being about to lose everything. In days like this, what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger. And I hope I’m stronger.