Looking for God in All the Wrong Places

I had music running nonstop in my room from 1995 until I moved out for college. Every moment in his arms had a soundtrack. j^C doesn’t know why The Wedding Album is so important to me. It got me through marching season, the aftermath of losing my dad, and more afternoons in bed with Denial than I can remember. Duran Duran was the background noise of days when I left him light headed because we had kissed so long that I forgot to breathe.

When he was a loving God, he was amazing. It was nothing for me to reach into his pants and fondle him. I miss that. I miss the innocence of it – the thrill. It’s nothing to do that to your husband when you are 25, but to your boyfriend when you are 12, it’s like riding a roller coaster.

Everything that we did together was a rush. I used to drive him insane toward the end lamenting the loss of “electric butterflies” – the feeling that I used to get when we were together. I found the butterflies again in the game I play with him – In my idol worship.

When I play roulette and drive by his house hoping to see him and dreading the prospect at the same time my stomach turns to delicious knots and I don’t know whether I want to fly or to puke or both. I don’t know if I really want to see him or hope that I don’t – most of the time I don’t know what I’m looking for and I don’t know what I would do if I were face to face with him again anyway.

What do you say to God? You stutter and sputter and fall on your knees in awe, in fear, in praise of his glory. You are struck dumb, you are weak, you are helpless, and he is the almighty father, your salvation wrapped up in second hand clothes and sporting an unkempt beard.

But that’s alright because despite his humble appearance you can see the magnificence that he is. The beauty, the power, and the love. You crave just one more moment of that love. One more touch of that hand.

I would love to bow my head just to feel his fingers in my hair once more. I would close my eyes so as not to go blind just to feel his lips brush my cheek once more. I yearn for his grace. I need to know that my God of flesh and blood still loves me.

I have sinned and fallen short of his Glory. I need him to pick me up, and dust me off, and to tell me that it’s alright, that he understands, that he’s not mad, and that he loves me. I want him to love me back.

And so I pray. I think about him far more than I should. I compose letters in my head that I am too afraid to write down, much less send. I wear a psychological hair shirt under my façade of being put together and under control. When no one is listening, I cry and I berate myself, my words stinging my heart and pricking my eyes like the burs of a flagellant’s whip.

In my mind, I crawl over broken glass to the shrine I’ve built in the deepest part of my subconscious. When I dream, it’s always an apology and his forgiveness, and his kiss, and my guilt at betraying my husband and at how good it feels to be in his arms again at last. And when I wake I am torn apart and I do penance for days.

“Forgive me for my psychological infidelity to my husband – Forgive me for this, and for every wrong I ever did you. Forgive me. Love me. Give me back the keys to the kingdom of your heart. Love me. Think of me fondly. Remember me. Bear me no ill will. Love me. Love me. Love me back."