Article – Fairy tale
Photo credit: Penywise from morguefile.com
My head hurts.
I’m riding passenger in a small truck through a wet night, with the lights of the vehicles being our only guide through the darkness. We’re on our way through the Smokey Mountains to visit our family in North Carolina.
You know how your mind wanders when you’re bored, with nothing to do other than speculate about the meaning of life? Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only person who has that problem—but with two billion people on the planet, I can’t possibly be the only one.
As a storyteller, it’s quite nice to let my mind wander the way any of my characters’ minds would, just losing myself in the sight of spinning tires alongside us, or the floating red-and-white lights carried by the cars and trucks around us. I look at those vehicles, those mechanical tools of transportation, and my thoughts escape me before I have a chance to realize it. What’s the point of it all? Our advances as a species, our inventions, our travels, these dark back roads leading from one state to another… it’s almost as if we actually have a destination, but do we really?
Where, in the long run, are we headed?
The man on the radio sounded charismatic before the station cut out. He creatively preached a message I’ve heard too many times to count in my twenty-two years of life. It was a Christian pastor, who spoke of our Lord Jesus Christ, the man who died for our sins and gave sacrifice for the whole of humanity—said that he who fears The Lord loves him the most, and that we should live on our knees and not resist. Sometimes the message makes a little sense, and sometimes I can vaguely understand the unclear motives of the men in the Bible. But to say that I should live on my knees? That sounds like the message of a tyrant to me.
As a child, I often found myself overjoyed in church, standing beside my mamaw and clapping along with the other church goers as they sang their joyful tunes. Everything was simpler back then; everything seemed to be in the right place, and in front of me was a seemingly clear path. I had no clue how many religions existed in the world. I hadn’t the faintest idea of how many nationalities there were, how many wars had been waged, how so many elements of our everyday lives are extensions of the cruelest forms of manipulation possible; selling us vices like cigarettes, alcohol, and junk food for a profit, creating advertisements geared to suck money out of the pockets of people who can barely afford to live, supporting the one percent while the rest of us in the ninety-nine percent continue to scrape by, harboring under the delusion that we serve some purpose apart from holding up the wealthy and powerful with blood, sweat, and tears.
No, everything was clearer when I was a child. None of that wickedness existed in my mind. There was only God, my family, and the friends I would one day have. But as I grew and as I learned, more things fell out of place. My parents divorced, and my family fought amongst themselves constantly.
I learned their true colors, their human flaws. It was then I was able to see where their loyalties actually were. Pride effectively drained them of their ability to use their compassion. They certainly had compassion, yes, but they were clueless as to how to act on it. Their pride saw to that.
At least, that’s how my judgmental mind painted them up. All the answers I thought were set in stone crumbled apart in front of me; nothing was clear anymore. A fog replaced the transparent slate of right and wrong. I learned of many religions, I learned that stealing, lying, and manipulation were commonplace in our society, and I learned that nobody had the answers I was looking for.
And as a storyteller, I adored the shows or holiday specials that featured a character looking for similar answers, searching for the resolution to their moral dilemma. It felt unbelievably satisfying to watch the characters learn their lesson, and I wanted more than anything to create my own characters and put them through the same life experiences. But it was never enough; why must I rely on characters for answers to life’s questions? Why not rely on life itself, or the people around me?
Well, the more I realized how little the people around me knew—or cared to know—what they were doing or what mattered to them, the more I began to hate them. I didn’t trust them with the task of answering a child’s profound questions. Everything and everyone was jaded to me. No, I wouldn’t allow them to corrupt my mind. I shut off, shut down, and simply waited.
I waited for years until my environment became less hostile, less untrustworthy, before I dared open up to anyone. Even now, no religion seems to make perfect sense. Liberalism and Conservatism both appear to be half wrong all the time. My hand flashes a large cross ring, while my collar carries a small angel necklace. I still wear my Christian symbols, though the more I hear about the Bible, the more I hate it. I question everything dictated to me by any religion or any politician, and I am certain that they’re wrong even though I still haven’t found what’s right.
Perhaps the cross and the angel remain on my person because I, like everyone else, am desperate to believe in something impossible. How likely is it that I am the child from the shows and holiday specials, the curious wandering soul who will one day finally find something solid to believe in? That however impossible Jesus’ story sounds, him dying for our sins, maybe one day I will find proof of his unconditional love for us? Is he truly our light in this all-consuming darkness? Is he really the answer? Or do we have an answer among us that we simply refuse to see?
At what point do the fairytales bleed into reality?
Will they ever be reality?
There is no force in this universe powerful enough to make me bow—but if there is a God, and if he really is our salvation—if he is love, if he is life, and if he is all things righteous and holy—then surely he won’t condemn me for living on my feet rather than my knees, for preaching freedom rather than security, and for choosing to remain loyal to my loved ones rather than any laws or ancient scriptures.
It’s astounding to see so many advocates of a supposedly peaceful religion spew hateful banter about other religions, other communities, and people who live an alternative lifestyle. You won’t catch me living that way, but intolerance only breeds hatred for things or ideals that are different from your own.
Regardless of your spiritual beliefs, why would you accept such a mentality? Peace and love aren’t born from intolerance and hate.
Still, the lights of the hotel and the car lot shine bright like their own stars in the night. We’re approaching Franklin in North Carolina, and I’m about to see my grandfather for the first time in a year. I suppose I have some of my priorities in order, at least. I’d like to spend time with my family before the elder members pass away, and before my parents move away and carry on with their lives, hopefully abandoning their grudges with each other.
Right and wrong have always been clearest to me in those crucial little moments of life, when you’re faced with paying your respects to a sick relative, or when you finally wrap your mind around your parents’ problems and feelings.
I’ll just keep learning as I go, and maybe I’ll be a fairy tale worth preaching about one day.
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