Mount Washington

It’s cold and beautiful tonight in Pittsburgh and I have a case of tunnel vision. I realize this as I’m holding my breath, forgetting to make a wish underneath the Main Street bridge. It’s 20 below on a Tuesday around 8pm, and Mount Washington is silent; the city glowing in all of its twilight glory. Sitting here in my car, contemplating my next move, I can at least be grateful that the quietness of this bridge has allowed my heart to slow its pace, emulating the still winter night that lies outside.

But then I catch my breath; the frustration rolls back in me like a tidal wave. Crashing into my heart, the ocean burning in the corners of my eyes. I’m so angry at myself I feel it looming inside and outside of me. Like a storm cloud, God himself preparing to rain down his disapproval over me. I look up from the light of my phone to see the Red Cross glaring from the church across the street. And the tiny white crosses that hang on the spindles a few feet further…I instantly feel god everywhere. Angry, and glaring, and distant…yet if I get out of my car, and walkdown the street, and enter into those massive cathedral doors, I would be right inside his home. I would get on my knees behind one of the dark mahogany pews, and I would cry. No talking, no praying, no thinking.

It’s been so long since I’ve been in the presence of the lord, that I imagine my soul would take on a physical reaction. Throwing my mortality into the hands of my maker; showing my pity, my ragged emptiness. And if God happened to be home on this particular Tuesday night at 8pm in frigid Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania…what would he say to me?
‘My child, you’ve tried, albeit poorly, to find your own way in this world. Although you had the best of intentions, how long did you think you would make it without me on your side? I have seen your pain and your loneliness, and most importantly I have seen with each passing day just how increasingly lost you have become.’
At this point, I imagine the tears would stop. The tide would recede, the storm cloud would drift away, and my hands would, most likely, fall to my knees.
‘I was just trying to do what was best for me. I was trying to follow my heart.’
After this admission of utter truth, my chin would slope down to my neck, my eyes would fall to the hands at my knees, and I would wait.
…and wait. And the cathedral would fall under an eery silence. And eventually I would look up, thinking god was still there.
But it seems as though he had left. And after much thought and meditation on my knees behind the pew in the house of the Lord, I could only come to the conclusion that he left because he had nothing left to say.


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