As I lay on my couch, I press my fingers deeper into my cheek, wondering if the marks will be there if I leave them long enough. My eyes are dry, drooping and slightly baggy. I watch as my little brother proclaims that a piece of trash belongs in, what do you know, the trash. Three years olds, man.
My eyes shift towards the window. For a while, I watch the sky turn a dark grey. It's raining out, my favorite type of weather. I close both baggy eyes and think of all the places I want to be but here. And then my mind does that thing where it brings up memories out of nowhere — you know, completely unwarranted.
3 a.m. and I'm in my dorm, worn out from an hour long panic attack and my inevitable insomnia. I had brushed my face with my hand and realized I hadn’t washed it yet. I take my cleanser, walk out the door, eyes bright and puffy from crying, and go to open the communal bathroom door. As I open the door, a girl on the other side pulls it before I can, and simultaneously scares the living shit out of me. I mean like I yelped like a little girl and my eyes went big. She has a towel on and had just come out of the shower. Immediately, she starts giggling and exclaims, “I’m so sorry oh my gosh.”
A smile inches up on my face as I realize my hand had flown to my chest. I look like an elderly woman who had just been told the early bird special was no longer available. I giggle along and tell her goodnight. My heart beat a little faster, a reminder I was still here, and things were going to be okay.
A second memory flashes up at me, without my permission.
5 p.m. is awful for traffic. I tap my foot on the dashboard as I inch closer to the car in front of me. I’m so excited. I’ve always wanted younger siblings and even though I’m twenty my heart is warmed by the idea of a second baby brother. When I finally arrive at the hospital and I walk into the room, my heart explodes. He is so tiny. How can you explain something so tiny? You can’t. You just hold him in your arms. You hold him so long your body is buzzing with warmth and joy. You hold him so long your parents are asking you to let other people have a turn. But you’re territorial and coveting every moment with this tiny creature. A soft, beautiful voice reminds you: “This is what makes life worth it.”
I open my eyes and thank my subconscious for the little memories.
The point? I didn’t see God when I was looking for immediate answers. I didn’t see God when I watched loved ones pass away. I didn’t see him at my darkest, lowest moments. I didn’t even hear him or feel him or any of that. I don’t go to church as often as I should, I pray on occasion, and I never started truly believing in him until I thought about it.
He’s kind of like a friend. He’s a stranger laughing at a 3 a.m. encounter. He’s the gift of a brother. He’s the woman who let me buy, 30 cents short, a small black coffee. He’s the professor who didn’t question me when I emailed him about my depression. He’s my best friend calling at two am, just asking how I am. He’s the small stuff. And I feel pretty lucky to know this, to feel it truly in my heart.
So, I lied (sorry about that and stuff, Lord). It wasn’t just one moment. It was everything in between.
