There is a deep vent on the ocean floor of humanity, a place of creation between belief and unbelief. On this living ridge is the sacred spot where faith takes its first deep breath. This is the womb of grace.
People pop out of this fissure. Young and old, they swirl for a time in a warm eddy before settling on one side or the other.
For better or for worse, I have thrown my Texas lasso into this vent, and now I float above the rift, hanging tight to my rope, fighting the currents.
Peter Pan? Burr under the saddle? Bodhisattva to the agnostic? I don't know what I am. I did not know what I was doing when I cast my rope.
Some of the people drift so naturally into belief, and I shout "Vaya Con Dios" while they disappear into the West. Others are swept just as naturally to the other side. They take life straight, like Hemmingway said.
To them I say, "Be strong. Keep your heart open, as well as your eyes. Keep asking.”
“We will, preacher,” they say, their voices growing faint as they slip into the East.
“Why are you here?” someone asked as she drifted away. All I gave her was a shrug and a smile because I don't know myself.
I look at my rope-burned hands, and I have no answer.
I only know that I never get tired of the moment when faith is born into this world.

rlp

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