Only God knows where we’re going…and only God knows where we’ve come….phhhht; God?

I don’t believe in God. Not God as he stands, or sits; or namastes all over the joint on his yoga mat. Wait, did I say ‘his’?

I may have, but it doesn’t count because I didn’t say ‘His’.

With a capital.

I lost my faith a long, long time ago.

Not just in organised religion, though that happened too; but in  God…The Almighty, Loving God…..that One who died to save all who loved him, (and by all manner of fabulous tricks and sleight of hand…remember Daniel in the lions’ den?)  …yet who lets so many god-awful things happen to so many innocent children.

Now, if it was me as I write these words today, who was to be punished,  I could understand it. I’m a grown up. I’m a sinner. Let all manner of Hell fall upon me. But I was…as are so many others….just a child. Innocent of all save what they are surrounded by.

So God can go and take a running jump.

Off a short pier. Preferably over a school of Great Whites.

Slaying Dragons.

You know those times you hear that inner voice, that one that is a push from the Universe   or whatever you believe in? That voice that you hear and you know it is not yours; yet it is? I hear it from time to time….and it is to my detriment if I ignore it.  This entry is about that voice yelling at me years ago. One that led me to take back my power.

I was at home, being  mum and renovating the house – painting, sanding and sealing floors and all that other easy cosmetic stuff.  My husband (at the time) came home for lunch – which had never happened before. I had run out of paint, so I told him I was going to pop to the shops to get some more. I don’t know why, but K Mart is in my head. Did they ever sell paint?

I doubt it – but that is where this story takes place. (Maybe I had dropped in there for a bargain…who knows?)

Anyway, I was walking down the main aisle, and saw my Nana. I started towards her, to say hello…and out from behind a rack of clothing stepped Harry, pushing the shopping trolley – ever the gentleman.

My Rapist.

I jumped back in shock – I wasn’t expecting to see him.

I shouldn’t have been surprised – Nana couldn’t drive. It was 13 or more years since he had been charged and convicted, and well over that since I had laid eyes on him. My fear was as debilitating as it ever had been.

I hid behind the shelving…determined neither would see me, and I could scurry home – burnt but not beaten. But that was not to be, because a voice, as clear as day, that sounded like me but was not me, roared in my head – firm and forceful:

“Go and say your piece!”

So I did.

I walked past Nana – saying a quick hello. I had no thought at all for how the next few moments would affect her.

I marched up to the man who had raped me for years.   He had a look of abject helplessness in his eyes – it felt to me like he thought I might have been friendly toward him, but it took only milli-seconds of eye contact for him to realise he was a butterfly impaled on the pin of my loathing.

My beautiful Aunty R who had died with HIV complications, as mentioned in “The First Star is Yours”, was his only child. She ha not long passed. I felt it only right to acknowledge what must have been a huge loss for him.

“I just want to say I am so sorry for what happened to R.”

And then I paid back the threat he had forced upon me every time we had met since I was tiny.

I meant every syllable.

And it felt good:

“If I was my Dad, you would be dead. I would have shot you.”

And I turned and walked out of there, calm and disciplined – wanting to run, but knowing I had to maintain my state of being or I would melt into a puddle of pathetic sobs.

I drove home on auto pilot, and hugged my babies.

And that was that….until the next time I poked the beast….