Recently, I read an essay by Mary Karr in Poetry magazine. It startled me and made me think about my own faith journey anew. An excerpt:
I started kneeling to pray morning and night—spitefully at first, in a bitter pout. The truth is, I still fancied the idea that glugging down Jack Daniels would stay my turmoil, but doing so had resulted in my car hurtling into stuff. I had a baby to whom I had made many vows, and—whatever whiskey’s virtues—it had gotten hard to maintain my initial argument that it made me a calmer mom to a colicky infant.
So I prayed—not with the misty-eyed glee I’d seen in The Song of Bernadette, nor with the butch conviction of Charlton Heston playing Moses in The Ten Commandments. I prayed with belligerence, at least once with a middle finger aimed at the light fixture—my own small unloaded bazooka pointed at the Almighty. I said, Keep me sober, in the morning. I said, Thanks, at night.
For the entire essay, go to http://www.poetrymagazine.org/magazine/1105/comment_175809.html . Great writing and lots to think about.