Fire and Water

Everyone says water and fire can’t coexist. Now, with all the controversy I’d cause to spring into light with a few vibrations of miniscule tendons, I’d naturally claim I’m not here to dispute a proven fact to discourage confrontation, but in frank reality, I am. Because even though the tacit laws of human nature claim that when one fact is proven there is no other possibility besides what God may decide, I refuse to conform. Why? Because some people decide to only see what’s right in front of them --what’s most logical and simplistic. What’s most comprehendible. They choose to be blind. Instead of choosing to see a beautiful coexistence of two elements made out to be mortal enemies, the last things that would choose to exist together; they see one or the other. They choose to see a pan of nothing hanging over a few flickering flames, or they choose to see an extinguished nub of a candle with no flame. Where’s the fire? Where’s the water? They ask, obviously one overpowers the other; it’s the way of the world. It’s the way of life, they claim. Well, what they choose not to see or believe in are the invisible droplets of that very same water in the very same space dancing into the atmosphere. They don’t see the energy that fueled that fire simply move to other hosts. Invisible fire. Invisible water. They don’t see how things that are thought to destroy something can actually set it free from their earthly chains and preconceived notions, their improper title.

At first I was a doubter too. I didn’t believe in miracles; I didn’t believe in two adversaries winning in a way that others thought were killing them. I just saw win and live in travesty, or lose and go to hell. I was living my life in a blind fold of oppression, and what better captives than my strict, idealistic med-school graduate parents? They pictured me following in their footsteps, acting as their serious, knowledge oriented protégée.  But I didn’t want knowledge. I wanted more than that.

I alarmed them. So, like any edgy hijacker, they implemented more force. Laid down the law. My newly created gag was a miniscule, God praising community located very blessedly (or so they say) in the middle of nowhere, Michigan. Less art, more focus, they claimed all-knowingly, less distractions are best for you at least. Your sister, now, your sister, take a look at her, she was able to handle everything and a bucketful of mercury. In my new home, I became my sister’s less-than-spectacular sister. I became my parents’ trouble child. There seemed to be no escaping who I didn’t know I was, but others knew I was, or the endless stands of hardwood trees, or the log cabins (maybe that’s an over exaggeration), or the infinite crosses adorned with forlorn, bloody Jesus’ acting as desperate lifeboats.

Those Jesus’ always seemed depressed to me. They lined my parents’ secluded beach house, the school, and the one room churches. There were Jesus’ everywhere, yet no one had actually talked to the guy, never knew him no matter their constant, calm claims. Those numerous tranquil believers began to irk me to no end as they praised Him and his endeavors to right mankind. They planted a seed of well-tended resentment as they commended His suicide and condemned everyone else’s. Sure, He was trying to sacrifice himself for the rest of humankind, but what if others are trying to do the same? I guess our sacrifices are too selfish.

So, needless to say, I wasn’t a believer. I didn’t believe in miracles, didn’t believe in some sort of Heaven or afterlife. I wanted to believe in Hell, but I couldn’t even bring myself to accept that concept, couldn’t consider that the impressive multitude of eternally bad people would actually pay for all their wrongs.

Like I said, I was oppressed. Was. Past tense.  

Don’t get me wrong, I never became religious. Jesus never quite saved me. I never quit defying my irate parents. I’m still as dubious as ever when it comes to Mr. Jesus Christ and all his sinful biblical figures. I’m still convinced knowledge is a big step lower than what I’m after. No, I saved myself. Jesus didn’t save me, knowledge didn’t save me. Rather, I began trying to understand people’s constant attempts to accept that things happen for a reason. In my case, it wasn’t understanding why Jesus let himself get nailed to a giant, wooden sepulcher, but rather, that some things really do happen by chance and lead to something great.

In my case, it wasn’t really love that changed me, but death.