Note: My mom convinced me to start writing for the memoir again. It's been two years since I started the damn thing, and a lot has changed in those two years. My writing style has certainly changed. Many of my views have changed. So on and so fourth. After awhile of thinking, I decided it's time to tackle the next step of writing my book, which is basically "re-writing" it. I'm obviously gonna copy/paste some parts from draft one into this draft, but a lot of it will be completely re-written. I'm totally happy with tackling that project. Very few people have written a good book overnight. 

Also, I'm depressingly bored. I need something to do. 

 

Some nights ago, I committed a deadly sin. Mom and I went out to eat for the first time in over a year (thanks super smart doctors, for making that happen with vaccines), and while my mom went to the restroom to wash her hands upon sitting down, I noticed she left her phone behind. A dangerous idea popped into my mind, and I couldn’t resist it. I unlocked her phone, tapped on her Facebook app, and searched up one of my old teachers from my Christian school I knew my mom was Facebook friends with. What came up was exactly what I was expecting. 

“Covid is nothing but a cold! Get over yourselves!” one post read. “Wearing a mask is for people who are too soft and scared! Burn your masks, NOW!!” Another post read. I wish I could just slap that idiot through the screen. But, knowing I’d never see them in-person ever again, I decided to check out another person who I knew I’d see again someday. 

I searched up one of my second cousins, and sure enough, his Facebook profile was littered with the same anti-covid and anti-lefty posts. I was really just hoping for some entertainment, but I could feel my blood begin to boil when I read a post that dragged God into it. “It’s a sin to wear masks and social distance like the anti-Christian government wants us to. If you really have faith, burn your masks and hug your neighbors! God commanded us to not have fearful hearts!”, was the post that made me put the phone down, and made me so glad that I wiped all of my social media accounts off the internet for good. It also got me thinking very hard about a number of things regarding my faith and theirs. 

How could we read the same Scriptures yet have vastly different conclusions? Was one question I asked myself. Then, another thought came to mind, You do not read the same Scriptures as them. 

I was honestly stunned by this thought. After all, I do have a regular old bible I read routinely. How could I be reading different Scripture? Well, ever since I discovered scholars such as Dr. Michael Heiser, Dr. John Walton, and Dr. Francis Collins, as well as Youtubers such as Inspiring Philosophy and Gospel Simplicity, as well as a blogger called Adamantium Joy (who I got into contact with a couple years back because we both have CF, and I was trying to figure out how to write for the CFF blog like he and others had), I’ve also been looking into the culture, language, and context the bible was originally written in. Turns out, the bible was not written in modern English by 21st century thinkers in the western world. Shocking, I know! 

Instead, Scripture was originally written in a very ancient, eastern language by equally ancient authors. It has been translated into English in many, many different ways. The first English version of the bible was the King James Version, written in 1611. For its time, it was revolutionary. But, it did have some errors and mistranslations. Over time, as the world became increasingly scientifically-minded and westernized, and people gained a better understanding of Hebrew and Greek, the bible was re-translated over and over again. Now, we can access any version of the bible we want, and translate the original, raw Hebrew and Greek into raw English online for free. And, through that, along with the guiding words of my favorite biblical scholars, I’ve come to realize that the bible I’ve gotten sucked into is very different from the NKJV and KJV bibles most of the Christians I know read from. 

To me, this is scary and sad, yet invigorating and awesome. It’s scary and sad because I wish I could talk to my fellow Christian family members and share how awesome Scripture really is with them, and we could all grow in the faith together. After all, iron sharpens iron. But, based on how hostile many of them are towards new ideas, I don't know if we can have a civilized conversation. It’s invigorating and awesome because I love learning new ideas and perspectives, and I can practically watch myself get closer and closer to God as I learn more and more about Him. Of course, whenever I fall into a rabbit hole like this one, I don’t shut up about it. But, at least it gives me something to do, and has replaced my endless monologues about hunting and dirtbikes for the time being. 

Yet, I feel like I’m getting nudged to show my not-so-open-minded loved ones what I've been learning. Almost as if God is calling me to start a dialogue with some of those people, and introduce them to the Christianity I’ve gotten myself into, as new to all of it as I am (I only just started reading Dr. Heiser’s book Unseen Realm, and I feel like I’d be way in over my head if I didn’t have access to Google. Sometimes, I have to read the same chapter three or four times before I can actually digest what is being said). My conservative Christian grandparents (who got their vaccines and take covid seriously) are gonna fly in and visit us here in Washington for a week. My grandpa is especially interested in talking about God and politics. And, as I mentioned, is very conservative and evangelical. 

Unlike my second cousin and former teacher, my grandpa doesn’t have a short fuse or a mean bone in his body, and he actually listens to learn instead of argue. He loves history, art, and learning about different people and cultures (yet, is somehow still very conservative). I feel drawn to introduce him and grandma to the Christianity I’ve discovered. If that goes over well (which it will), perhaps I can introduce my less-friendly Christian loved ones to it too, without anyone feeling attacked or patronized.  

Now, I know what many of y’all are thinking: What are you talking about? Can you elaborate on your current Christian beliefs? What have you learned?

The answer to those very dangerous questions is a very enthusiastic, “Yes!” I’ll gladly share what I’m thinking and learning, even though I might never shut up about it (I may have talked about it nonstop for two hours, while running errands with my mom the other day). 

It all started when I learned more about Dr. Francis Collins, specifically his website called Biologos.org. At the time, I was a very, very new Christian. I didn’t even know I was Christian at that point, as I was still very critical of the faith (which I still am, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a Christian. God can handle my questions and rants. In fact, I think He enjoys it). Dr. Collins (the same doctor who made Trikafta possible and who personally researched phage virus therapy for me, because my mom is close friends with his cousin) has written extensively on his journey to Christianity as someone who grew up in a secular home and studied science in college. He fully accepts the fact of evolution, and points out that the story of Adam and Eve is more or less a Hebrew creation myth, passed down from one generation to the next over thousands of years. Nearly every culture has these ancient myths. Yet, just because the bible may not be scientifically true, it’s still true in lots of other ways, such as morally and intrinsically. Things don’t have to be literally and scientifically true to be true. I hope that makes sense. 

From there, I discovered Dr. John Walton, another scientist who grew up in a secular household and became a Christian as an adult. He wrote a book called The Lost World of the Flood, which I haven’t read yet but I’ve heard him talk about it. Thanks to him and Dr. Collins, all of my scientific issues with the bible were dispelled. With science outa the way, I began to question the bible’s morality. 

I wondered why the bible read (at least in English) that homosexuality is a sin, even though it’s clear that people in the LGBT community didn’t choose to be born the way they were, and are totally capable of having loving, lasting relationships with their partners. Also, nobody is being harmed by people who prefer to be called they/them, but young people unfortunately commit suicide very often when they're rejected for who they are. Why does Christianity seem to condone those who don't want to respect those whose gender identities are different from their biological parts, but condemn those who just want to be called "she" instead of "he"?

I wondered why God created a world full of suffering when the bible read (again, at least in English) that God created everything very good and without sin and death. I wondered why God specifically created me, knowing I’d be born into a world of suffering. And how He could knit every baby in their mothers’ wombs, knowing damn well many of them would be aborted, or stillborn, or be born without vital organs and severely malformed, and die soon after birth? How could a loving, perfect God create such horrific lives, and allow such terrible things to happen?

Then, I discovered Dr. Michael Heiser, as well as a couple of youtubers that I mentioned before. They helped me answer those questions, and many others, and I’m still learning and growing with them everyday. I also know the writer behind Adamantium Joy, who is also reading the same heavy theological stuff I am and suffers from the same health condition I have. 

Now, where do I stand today on some of these issues? 

Well, let me just say some things that’ll shock a lot of people (and maybe even make some people stop reading). I have numerous Scriptural reasons to believe that homosexuality (or any sexuality), so long as it’s between consenting, loving adults, is not a sin. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it!

Or, how about this stunning revelation: I have numerous Scriptural reasons to believe in evolution, and that Noah’s flood wasn’t a global flood, and Adam and Eve weren’t literally the first humans on earth.

Or, think about this: Hell isn’t a place of literal fire and brimstone, and heaven isn’t a place where people literally sit on clouds and strum harps forever, or get rewarded with frivolous things for their good works.

Oh, and Revelations was actually a letter written in a way that only those Paul was writing to would understand, so the Romans couldn’t figure out what the hell he was actually saying (fun fact: the Beast and the number 666 are actually references to the Roman emperor Nero, not Satan), and has nothing to do with the second coming of Christ.

Also, God, in the Hebrew bible, is genderless. 

I know, I know. Crazy, right? I’m totally a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I’m definitely going to burn in hell forever and ever. 

Well, no. I'm not a wolf in sheep's clothing or an anti-Christian posing as a Christian. You see, I still believe that Christ was literally God in the flesh, and He was literally crucified and buried, and literally rose from the dead three days later to wash away our sins and serve as an example to the world. I still believe miracles literally happen. I still believe that Christians ought to abstain from certain things, such as drunkenness and Ouija boards and violence, and strive to become more like Christ even though we’ll never be anywhere like Him in our fleshy bodies. I still believe in a literal spiritual realm, and in a literal spiritual afterlife. Just like my conservative family members. 

I just happen to disagree with many of the non-essential things my conservative (and progressive) brothers and sisters believe, which is totally okay with me. I don't believe that I know everything, and anyone who disagrees with me is wrong, stupid, and going to hell. I don’t believe my beliefs ought to be shoved down others’ throats or used to shame and oppress people, especially since I can guarantee many of my beliefs and views will change every five years or so. Hell, I have a hard time just sharing them with others, not just because I am afraid of making them upset or misrepresenting things, but also because in Matthew 6 and 7, Jesus specifically said that we ought to keep matters of faith just between us and God. I’m not yet sure how that applies to me. Should I keep quiet and pray only silently or behind closed doors? Or, is it okay to open my mouth sometimes? Where is the healthy balance?

I guess I’ll eventually figure out whether or not I’m sinning at the moment. But, I don’t feel like the Holy Spirit is convicting me of any wrongdoing. If anything, I feel like I'm being led to write this for others from all walks of life to read.

 

As I continue to ask and answer these hard, hard questions, I feel more and more comfortable calling myself a Christian every day. Even though I’m not currently attending a church, I’m still attending church. I can even argue that I am the church, or at least an individual part of it according to Paul's writings and Christ's famous sermons. I’m studying the bible with the Internet’s help, and listening to podcasts and commentaries by those much smarter and more educated in this stuff than I’ll ever be. And, as I do so, I’m beginning to see God behind every corner and under every rock in life. I'm starting to see after being blind for so long. 

I am simply in awe of God’s creation, as harsh and imperfect as it often seems. I often find myself in nature, studying the bark on the trees and the veins in leaves, tuning into the sounds of birds singing and wind rushing through the foliage, reaching down to dip my hands in the water and the sand, and gazing over glorious landscapes from high-up places, all while silently praising the Lord for it all. In recent months, I've even shed tears of awe as I've stood in the midst of His most beautiful creations, studying my surroundings with eyes that are very different from the ones I had before I finally confessed my faith. My heart still palpitates and chills still race up my spine and down my arms and legs, whenever I envision those glorious days I've spent in God's country. 

Hurricane Ridge, Washington state, taken by me in 2020. 

Ken Caryl Valley, Colorado, taken by me also in 2020. 

Even at home, I'm usually immersed in nature. Animal pelts are nailed to my walls and draped across my floor and over my bed. Animal skulls and bones sit on shelves, alongside fossils, rocks and minerals, science books, theology books, bibles, some fictional stories, and memoirs, and of course, my extensive collection of model horses. Antlers serve as hat racks. Pinecones, rocks, feathers, arrowheads, knives, and sticks can be found in random places on my shelves, desk, and in boxes and drawers. I have a fake tree that lights up with cute little craft birds clipped to its branches. And, nearly every picture of me in family photo albums are taken in nature. I probably can tell you about every plant, fungus, and animal local to me, and even about many plants, fungi, and animals that live on different continents. I'm obsessed with the science of nature, just as much as I'm obsessed with learning about God and getting to know Him personally. 

As I learn more and more about His creation through both science and theology, the more I’m enthralled by it. The Creator of all things has made some very magnificent things, my favorite being the things that God made to be creative themselves. You see, in Genesis, notice that God says, “Let the Earth bring fourth life.”, not, “God specifically planted every blade of grass, painted every feather on every bird, and handmade every rock and mountain.” 

When I noticed that, I couldn’t help but think about video games such as Minecraft. The creator of Minecraft doesn’t place every block that makes up every world. He programmed Minecraft to randomly generate worlds, so each time someone presses “Create World”, a brand new, never-before-seen world generates itself into existence. In other words, the creator of Minecraft didn’t spend time literally hand-planting every tree, hand-sculpting every mountain, hand-building every village, and hand-spawning every animal in every world. He did design the blocks and creatures that populate Minecraft, but he doesn’t spend his days hand-creating worlds. If he did so, there wouldn’t be literally millions of unique worlds billions of blocks large in Minecraft like there are.

So, why do so many Christians believe God hand-makes everything in nature? If humans can create self-creating worlds in computers, can’t God create self-creating worlds too? 

If you said, “Of course, God can create creative things!”, then congrats! You just discovered the bible affirms things like the theory of evolution and the ancient universe! I know what I just said probably ruffles many feathers, but it is true. Just bear with me. According to science, life, including human life, did evolve from non-life over billions of years (but we didn't come from a lifeless puddle. To assume so is very much wrong). According to the bible in its original language, culture, and context, God commanded the world to do so. Isn't that just epic?!

At least, that's how I see it. When I learn about evolution, the age of the universe, earth-like planets many lightyears away from us, micro-organisms, and other natural science, I don't see a bunch of anti-Christian scientists trying to make God obsolete. Instead, I see humans gradually figuring out how the Lord made the world. And, as we learn more and more about science and just how complex and connected everything is, my faith in God and my appreciation for His works continues to grow. I can't pick up a leaf without seeing God scribbled all over it, because that leaf's made up of billions of cells, and each cell contains a complex system of organelles, and each organelle is made up of a complex system of atoms, and each atom is insanely complex itself. Not to mention the tree that leaf came from, and how that tree came to exist in its current form. All of this is overwhelmingly amazing! At least, to me it is. 

Back when the bible was written, humans weren't scientifically-minded and they really didn't care about literal origins of things. They just wanted to express that God made things based on how God made the world in their eyes. God didn't bother to come down and plant scientific truths into their brains because the bible was never meant to be a science book. The stories in Genesis are myths; scientifically inaccurate stories that are morally and intrinsically true. As I said before, stories can be true without being literally, scientifically true. A fictional story doesn't have to be literally true to express truths about the world. While the beginning of Genesis may not be scientifically accurate, it does accurately express the truths that God created everything and specifically chose humans to be His image bearers. I hope that made sense. If not, look into my favorite biblical scholars. They can explain this stuff much better than I can. 

With that said, I hope I didn't scare anyone away by boldly saying humans did, in fact, evolve from the same ape chimpanzees evolved from, and that ape ancestor evolved from other mammals, and those mammals evolved from other animals, so on and so fourth. Or by pointing out the fact that many stories in the bible are cultural myths, passed down the generations until someone eventually wrote them down. 

Modern science and the fact that many biblical stories are myths, does not discredit Christianity or the existence of God at all, at least in my eyes. My faith isn't so weak that I rely on everything in the bible to be literally true for me to have faith. My faith isn't so fragile that being in the presence of people who don't believe in Christianity can cause me to abandon it. Unlike many Christians seem to unfortunately be, I am not afraid that Christianity will disintegrate if I am not there to constantly defend and proclaim it. Nor, am I constantly finding things to call "Christian persecution", and looking forward to the day we all get raptured (again, remember what I said about Revelations earlier). The Christian faith will always be around, forever and ever, no matter what happens.

It will still be relevant when scientists confirm the existence of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe. It will still stand strong in the face of actual intense persecution. The light of the Christian faith will always shine, even in the presence of other faiths and religions. And, no demon is gonna drag your entire family to hell if you dare to go trick-or-treating or befriend a pagan. Also, it's healthy to deconstruct your faith and/or your dearly held views and beliefs. Sure, it hurts and can often be scary, but I strongly believe it's necessary for everyone, regardless of what God or gods they pray to or not, to dissect their beliefs and ask the hardest, more terrifying questions imaginable. Try it! You'll thank me later. 

While I am not worried that Christianity will cease to exist one day, I do worry that too many people are leaving the faith over frankly minor problems with it. Too often, kids in Sunday school who "ask too many questions", are punished and told they're being tempted by the devil, rather than being told, "That's a very good question," and referred to those who may have an answer for them. I know it really sucks to be that curious kid, because I was that kid. Well, I honestly didn't attend Sunday school very often because I was too afraid of the other kids. But for 10th grade, I did attend a very small private Christian school. 

I was only at that school for one year because I knew I'd made a huge mistake when I first began to attending it. Why did I attend a tiny private school in the first place? Well, my health was taking a nose-dive, and Mom and I decided a small school environment would limit the number of germs I was exposed to, and make it easier for me to individualize my work in case I got sick and needed to work from home. If I wasn't getting so sick, I would've opted to try attending a much larger school, such as Columbine High School or Dakota Ridge High School, both of which were both very close to where I lived at the time. 

Before going to that tiny Christian school, I had attended an all-girls athletic school in downtown Denver for several years. The empowering, progressive culture at that girls school was very, very different from the quiet, conservative culture at my private Christian school. Needless to say, I was severely culture-shocked when I started going to a school that constantly condemned the "demonically liberal" (whatever that meant), secular culture of the city, and proudly taught us Young Earth Creationism and abstinence-only in science class. It actually hurt me very badly. It made me question everything I thought I believed. Ironically, I lost my faith for good (at least, I thought so) at that backwards Christian school. God was dead. The conservative church killed Him. 

In hindsight, I am strangely grateful for that major kick in the stomach. Before, I must admit I had a very shaky view of Christianity, science, politics, and other stuff like that. I didn't really have any firm beliefs, and just sort of parroted what other people told me was "right". But, that Christian school seems to have been God's way of ripping the rug out from under me and commanding me to really start getting my shit together. I also sort of see it as a precursor to things to come, such as the fact that Cystic Fibrosis will no longer be a crippling disease thanks to near-future science. I no longer could live comfortably naive and clueless, as I wouldn't be dead in ten years like I thought I would be at the time. 

Of course, at the time, I did not have any idea what the future actually held for me. And, I was deeply, deeply terrified. I knew my death was coming for me at mach-speed like an F-16. At least, it was back then. My lungs were the perfect breeding ground for every flesh-eating bacteria and fungus in existence, and I was so weak that a minor cold kept me at home for a week, unable to keep anything down except chicken soup and kombucha. But, I also knew my life was way too short to be spent attending school at a place I couldn't stand. So, after 10th grade, I began school at a secular high school made up of about 300 students. 

Unfortunately, that school had mold and Pseudomonas in the vents, which only sped up the process of dying for me. I was forced to take eight weeks off to get better the first time, turning to a very risky treatment called phage therapy when antibiotics did nothing but piss off the infections in my lungs. After being away for eight weeks, I managed to go back to  school again for about a month, only to get my ass whooped by the same infections again. I was forced to drop out of school for good, at which point I seriously considered just giving up and kicking the bucket. After all, what was the point of living if I'd spend the rest of my life chronically exhausted and in constant, searing pain? 

I was angry and bitter, for damn good reasons. I hated my body. I hated my surroundings. I hated my parents' decision to have me. Most of all, I despised it when people said they were praying for me and "sending good vibes" to me. I didn't care what religion they belonged to. I hated whatever God or gods people believed in, believing that whatever God or gods existed were responsible for my suffering, though at the time I did not believe in any spiritual stuff at all. I longed for death, looking forward to the day I'd go to sleep and never have to wake up, but my survival instincts and fear of leaving my beloved family heartbroken kept me alive.

Obviously, I managed to get back on my feet. A second round of phage treatments, coupled with very gentle exercise, buttloads of prescription medications, and lots of homemade soup got me through the worst infection I'd ever been through. By then, I was completely frayed and absolutely refused to return to any school that made me be in the same room as other students. I cried myself to sleep every night, fearing I had just cheated death the thousandth time only to be rewarded by being flung back into another musty school full of germ-riddled peers. Everyday, it was just a struggle to get myself out of bed every morning, and it took all of the courage I had to step outside and go for a gentle walk around the block in the sweet, spring air. 

There was, however, a light at the end of the long, horrific tunnel. I ended up being able to finish high school online, with the help of a teacher I could meet up with either in-person at the local library, or just online via Skype for an hour a day, five days a week. My teacher was a gentle older man with a PhD, and was formerly a professor, whom I'm still good friends with today. While I was very nervous about giving school yet another try, somewhere deep within me, I knew I was in good hands and would be okay. Dying or not, I had to give school one final try. If it didn't work out, then I could consider doing something else to fill my final days. 

In this environment, I was able to heal. My daily walks to the library a mile away and back helped me gain back the weight and muscle I'd lost while so sick. It was also important for me to get outside and in nature every morning. The library was located in Clement Park, just across a field from Columbine High School. There was a lake stocked full of game fish, and a 1.4 mile-long trail surrounding it. Wildlife was common too. On my walks, I heard and saw all kinds of birds, bugs, fish, prairie dogs, coyotes, and even the occasional mule deer. It was late spring when I began to attend school again, so the grass was green, flowers were blooming, leaves peppered the trees. 

For a couple of months, I flourished. I got to know my teacher to the point he was more like a friend rather than a teacher to me. I was doing startlingly well in school. I went from having a barely high-school understanding of math to catching right up to my peers in just a few weeks. I became more social and confident, to the point I decided I needed to gradually get over my fears of being in public alone and learning how to drive, so I could one day be an independent adult. Overall, I was really happy. Dare I say, even grateful that I survived. 

Then in 2018, my paternal grandpa, at the age of 76, unexpectedly passed away from a heart attack early one morning. 

I was close to him, and I loved and admired him very much. My grandpa Bob had suffered from health issues for most of his life, too. Most notably, he had a brain aneurysm in his early 40's that took away his ability to walk and talk with ease. His voice was severely slurred and he required either two canes or a walker to walk, though eventually age put him in a wheelchair for good. He'd also suffered from blood cancer, severe, reoccurring pneumonia that put him in the ICU nearly every year for the last decade of his life, kidney disease, and a couple heart attacks before the fatal one that killed him. Honestly, knowing just how tough my grandpa was, I didn't expect to ever lose him. My heart was shattered when I did. 

I got on a plane a couple days later, after telling my teacher I wouldn't be attending school for a week because of my grandpa's death. I stayed at my grandparents' farm alone the first night, with just my grandma. While lying awake on the couch with Pawn Stars quietly on the TV for background noise, I began to wonder if my grandpa was in heaven like my family was convinced he was, and if I'd see him again if that was the case. 

He was a staunch Christian, after all, though he was far from conservative politically or theologically. I remembered listening to him tell my dad how horrible he thought president Trump was, and going on and on about how he wished his generation embraced progressivism more. Every morning, my grandpa Bob read the newspaper and watched the news, then listened to more liberal church sermons on his radio, along with old country western music. He was a gentle man. He loved everyone he met, and he loved to travel before he got too old to do so anymore. In life, he'd traveled all over the country, visiting beloved friends from all walks of life along the way. I remembered when I was seven years old, sitting on his lap while grandma pushed us in his wheelchair through the nature and science museum in Denver, Colorado. He seemed to love science just as much as I did, and made me laugh hysterically by making eye contact with my dad, pointing to the statue of Lucy the ancient human, and saying to my dad, "Hey, look! It's you!" 

My eyes welled up with tears as I played back these memories in my mind's eye, lying on the couch alone in the dark, in my grandparents' admittedly eerie antique farmhouse. Finally, through my tears I quietly said, "God, or anyone, if you can hear me, can you give me a sign? Please..."

Immediately, a weird feeling washed over me. I felt like I was being watched by someone. Then, I don't know if it was my mind playing tricks on me or a shadow of something outside, but in the kitchen, I saw a shadow quickly move out of view of the doorway leading into the kitchen in the pale moonlight. I swear, it looked about the same size of my grandpa Bob, if he was standing. Sitting down, my grandpa didn't look big. But, he was a big guy, standing six foot four at his tallest. Whatever I saw just briefly move in the kitchen was about that tall, and appeared to have the same physique as my grandpa as well. 

Instead of getting off the couch and yelling, "grandpa!" like a little kid getting off the plane at the airport, I got spooked and laid petrified on the couch. I only got more afraid when I heard what sounded like heavy human footsteps walking around in the upstairs bedroom above me. It wasn't my grandma, as she was fast asleep in the downstairs bedroom, right next door to the living room I was in, and they sounded way too heavy to belong to a small animal. And, I was completely alone besides my grandma, and nobody ever slept upstairs. The house was too dilapidated up there for anyone to sleep comfortably. 

To this day, I don't know what that was. Frankly, believing what I now believe about the spiritual realm, I don't really want to know what that was. But, based on my current beliefs, I think I was being toyed with by a spiritual entity that was almost trying to mimic my grandpa in a way, knowing I was naive about the spiritual realm (after all, I was asking for anything to give me a sign of its presence). I know that sounds crazy, but based on what I've heard biblical scholars say and I have read in my own bible, I do believe spiritual entities not of God exist and can manifest themselves in this world. I also don't believe human souls can linger, so I don't think it was actually my grandpa responding to my request. 

Thankfully, nothing else happened, and I was eventually lulled to sleep by boring Pawn Stars re-runs. I woke up around six AM the next morning to the smell of grandma's cooking when a ray of sunlight landed right on my face. Over bacon and pancakes, grandma and I had a conversation about the day's plans, though I didn't dare tell her what happened the night before while she was asleep. I felt like I was going crazy, and I didn't want my grandma to think something was wrong with me. She had more than enough to worry about. Her husband of over fifty years was gone, and we still had to hold a celebration of life and bury him six feet deep in God's country. 

Over 500 people visited my grandpa's wake later that day, and another 250 people were present at the tiny Lutheran church for a sermon and his burial. I sobbed harder than ever when I saw my grandpa's body laying lifeless and cold in an oak casket at the wake, and cried just as hard again when I watched his body being lowered into the ground, literally just across the dirt road from some of the land he worked on his whole life. Before we began to throw dirt onto my grandpa's casket, we threw dried wheat stalks and fresh wildflowers over his casket. Someone even placed a little metal crucifix on his casket before we buried him under six feet of Minnesota soil. 

That afternoon after the funeral, I took a long, silent walk around the family farm. My cousin had a herd of mix-breed cattle grazing the sweet, spring pasture alongside their playful little calves. The warm sun shone through partly-cloudy skies, and a swift, cool breeze brushed over the fields and through my hair. As I trudged over a dusty field of young cattle corn, heartbroken and in agony, I silently began to mull over the possibility of there being a life after death, and whether or not my grandpa was there. If my grandpa really was alive and well in the spiritual realm, I wanted to go there too and see him again. But, at that time, I had numerous issues with religion, and especially the Christian faith. 

As a bit of a science nerd, I couldn't figure out how the bible could be true if it said God created the world in six days and humans from dust. As someone who had suffered greatly, I struggled to reconcile a good, perfect God with an evil, imperfect world. As someone who had LGBT and POC friends, I struggled with the bible seemingly condoning stoning homosexuals to death and keeping people as slaves. As much as it hurt me, I decided I'd rather live my life in painful truth as an atheist rather than accept a comfortable lie. 

On that dusty field, I decided to admit to myself that I was an atheist. Perhaps, I was even an anti-theist, though I figured I'd leave the job of being an obnoxious anti-theist to someone like Richard Dawkins. 

"Fuck God." I thought to myself as I kicked a rock as hard as I could, "A good, loving God wouldn't let this much suffering and strife happen. I am in so much pain. I wish I was born healthy. I wish my grandpa was still here. Why? Oh why, is there so much death and suffering and illness and gore in this sick, cruel world?"

The night before I returned home to Colorado, I dreamt about my grandpa. It took place in the middle of Zumbro Falls, a small town not far from the farm. In the dream, I was walking down the middle of the empty main road, past quiet country shops and trading posts. It was cloudy and raining. I sloshed through puddles on the road, and I could hear distant thunder. I headed into the mechanic's shop sort of in the center of town, where the only vehicle in town (a red pickup truck) was parked. Once inside, I saw my grandpa as I remembered him, sitting on a chair in the lobby with his head buried in a magazine. I sat in the plastic chair next to him as he lowered his magazine and smiled at me. 

"Well, look who the cat dragged in." my grandpa mumbled as he shakily placed his closed magazine on the cracked concrete floor. 

"Y'know, I'm very proud of you." my grandpa quietly said in his gruff voice, changing his tone into a more serious one, while his blue-grey eyes twinkled behind his thick glasses. 

I silently nodded, and he took my hands in his. In life, my grandpa Bob always held my hands in his to warm them up, as my hands were always very cold. 

"You do well out there, alright?" My grandpa continued, "You know where I am, and I love you."

He leaned over and embraced me in a hug. It felt so vividly real. I could feel the warmth of my grandpa's body, the soft fabric of his crimson flannel shirt, the strength of his arms around me, his chest and shoulders rise and fall as he breathed. 

"I love you so much, Papa." I sniffled as I began to cry. 

Finally, my grandpa pulled back saying, "I've gotta go. I am expected somewhere else."

He stood up to his full height quickly and without assistance. I just sat in my chair, stunned. There was a baseball cap and a jacket hanging on an old wooden coat hanger by the door to the outside. My grandpa took his time putting on his navy blue windbreaker without help, and tipped his hat to me as he pushed open the door and headed outside. I didn't stand up until the solid wooden door closed I was so shocked. But, I soon got to my senses and rushed after my grandpa. 

As I was heading for the door, I saw my grandpa's back from a grimy adjacent window. His hair was a sandy brown color, and he didn't seem to have any trouble walking off the curb to get to his truck. But, when I burst outside and rounded the corner, my grandpa and his red pickup truck were gone.

I woke up in tears, just wishing I could've seen his younger face in my dream. But, I was also comforted by it. Perhaps, my grandpa Bob really was alive and well in the spiritual realm. Maybe we would be reunited someday. Maybe I should give Christianity another try. After all, if my grandpa could remain a Christian despite all he went through, perhaps I could too. 

But, before I could bow my stubborn knees at the feet of Christ, I had a lot of issues with Him to work out. I was still a bitter, angry creature. I was in excruciating spiritual and mental pain, which translated into physical pain too. Not only was I grieving the loss of my grandpa, but I was still dealing with a slew of health issues. I kept getting nasty lung infections, and my digestive system was all screwed up from being on antibiotics and a soup diet for months. I was also writing the first draft of my memoir with help from my teacher and a few friends he introduced me to, which forced me to reflect back on my life thus far. What I dredged up from my memory was incredibly fucked up for the most part, which made me even more anti-theistic. 

Not wanting to upset the firm Christians in my family, I kept my unbelief to myself, and did my best to distract myself from these tough questions.  I pretended I enjoyed going to church with Mom on Saturday nights, when in reality it really sucked for me. Even though that church was very different from the conservative church my private Christian school was modeled after, it still brought up memories that gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and to be told over and over again that God loved me and wanted the best for me, was almost worse than listening to ten hours of nails on a chalkboard. Whenever I visited my Christian grandparents, I felt the same way whenever they brought up their faith or took me to their very conservative churches. Again, I kept my atheism well-hidden from everyone. Even in my writings, I wrote like I still believed in God, just in case someone close to me stumbled upon them. 

But, one day, I could no longer keep up this Christian facade. One night, just before church, I lied about feeling nauseous and wanted to stay home. My mom knew it was bullshit, for I'd just finished a big dinner and was sitting upright playing World of Warcraft at my desk. Instead, she asked why I didn't want to go to church. Startled, I stared at her speechless. But, I knew she knew the truth before I told her. I finally looked down at my lap in shame, and mumbled, "I... I no longer believe in God." 

"That's okay. I still love you." Mom smiled, "We all become atheists at one point or another in our lives. You can stay home for now, but you're always welcome to come to church with me."

Again, I was stunned. Normally, unless I was practically dying, my mom would've told me to stop being ridiculous and get my ass in the car. But, that time, she just shrugged her shoulders and told me I was free to stay home and play video games. 

Before she left, I told her, "Please, don't tell grandpa or grandma that I no longer believe. I don't want them to hurt." 

"Ok." Mom nodded, "I won't. Love ya! Do the dishes while I'm gone, and make sure Hunter has food and water. I'll be back with dinner." 

Once again, I was stunned by just how apathetic, for lack of a better term, my mom was towards my admission of atheism. It's not that she didn't care about me. My mom has always loved me more than anyone else. She just wasn't bothered by the fact that I no longer believed. I later found out that she prayed for me every night, asking God to guide, protect, and love me even if I didn't think He was there. One day, she thought, that I'd come crawling back to God, even if I remained an atheist until my soul left my body. Indeed, her prayers were answered. 

Nothing of note happened to me faith-wise for many months. Well, at least I thought so. In reality, I was subconsciously and sometimes consciously asking the big questions, chewing on less-than-satisfactory answers for the most part, and often charging head-first into dead ends. The question of faith never left me. I've always been insatiably curious, and had a strong desire to know the stone cold truth about anything and everything. I am still that way. Unlike some people, I'm not good at lying or making up fantasy stories, and I've always been able to smell even the slightest hint of dishonesty from miles away. I strive to be as open and truthful as possible to myself and those I trust. From them, I expect the same. 

Besides that, I was learning about the world in general, as well as about myself, at a startling pace. My school grades continued to hover in the A's and B's, even as I was tackling subjects I'd previously severely struggled in, such as math and science. As a result, I grew more confident in myself and my abilities. I sometimes dreamt about previous teachers who had called me stupid and slow to my face, in which I'd show them where I now was and smugly grinned at the shock in their eyes. 

But, I never seemed arrogant, except to myself. I still had very little self-esteem and often suffered from imposter syndrome. Yet, those around me, from my current teacher to my parents, were incredibly impressed by my grades and how quickly I could learn now that most of the things that caused me anxiety were gone. Of course, I still struggled with severe anxiety, especially surrounding my health, which at the time was not stable at all. But, at least I wasn't drowning in anxiety, so I could focus quite easily on what needed to be done. 

The rest of eleventh grade went by in a blur. I barely remember it, except the day my teacher told me I had made it to my senior year in high school. "You're free to go home, now!" my teacher, Eric said (yes, I was (and still am) on a first-name basis with my teacher), "See you Monday for writer's, and we'll get started on school again in a month or so!" 

Honestly, I didn't think I'd live to hear such words. It felt weird walking home that morning, but in a good way. I had a little more spring in my step than usual, and I felt lighter than I had in a long time. By then, the sting of my grandpa's death, while still there, was very dull. Health wise, I was back to my old self again. And, I felt like I could enjoy the rest of summer a lot easier knowing that I'd finish school with Eric as my teacher instead of being forced back into another school building with my peers. Overall, life had gotten way better. Just in time for the rug to get ripped out from under me yet again. 

Late that summer, my mom planted a big "For Rent" sign in our front yard, and announced that she and her boyfriend-at-the-time bought a fixer-upper house in Ken Caryl, Colorado, just a couple miles south and west of our Littleton home. I was not at all happy with the decision, and fought it tooth and nail. But, I did end up moving houses as much as I didn't want to. 

Mom was not kidding when she said that house was a fixer-upper. Oh, it wasn't too terrible. It clearly had been renovated a few years before. But, the house's foundation was sinking and it smelled musty, though the house inspectors found no mold. I claimed one of the basement bedrooms as my own, but I couldn't stay down there since the basement windows were leaking. In fact, those basement windows gave me another nasty Pseudomonas infection.

By then, I was sadly used to getting Pseudomonas. I knew what it felt and tasted like. It was far from pleasant and comfortable, but I could stoically handle it. I fought it the best way I knew how, while simultaneously starting my senior year of high school with Eric, and settling into my new surroundings the best I could. Still, I was not happy. Not confident. Not all okay. 

I still sensed my time on Earth was short, especially as my Pseudomonas infection began to build a fortress within my lungs. Once again, I began to fear the end was near. Cortisol perpetually surged through my veins as my infection only worsened, though I still did my damnedest to hide any and all of my discomforts. Those closest to me knew what was going on with me internally, and did all they could to encourage me and comfort me. However, I could not be comforted. I was once again a wild animal being backed into a corner by my old arch nemesis, and I longed for someone or something to vent to who'd understand exactly what I was going through.

God was knocking on the door to my cold, dead, hardened heart. I did my best to ignore it, but it wasn't long before I began to meditate on my mortality and what might be waiting for me on the other side. I wasn't afraid of the atheist's version of death. In fact, I thought a dreamless, eternal sleep sounded like paradise compared to the life I was currently living. I could use a long nap. But, the thought of life continuing on after I died was a much scarier one to me. I wasn't afraid of hell. Even today, as I write this, I still don't fear hell (which is probably why I'm not scared to be so blunt and honest about what I'm really thinking about God). I was, however, afraid of coming face-to-face with my Creator, and being completely unprepared to answer Him when He inevitably asked me for the secret password to enter into heaven. I know that's a ridiculous view of heaven now, but back then, that seemed like a very real threat. 

But, it wasn't long before my cynical atheist self took over my thinking, and reminded me that heaven was a fairy tale for people afraid of the dark, and hell was just a similar myth to scare people into believing bullshit. I spent a lot of time laughing along to videos on Youtube with titles like, "Christopher Hitchens ANNIHILATES clueless pastor.", as well as listening to Joe Rogan interview all sorts of interesting and intelligent people, all while shitting all over organized religion. Between those two types of media I was consuming, I started to believe that only the under-educated and severely mislead could believe in religion. If that wasn't true, then why were all the mainstream scientists (at least that I knew about) atheist? Why were all the crazy televangelists and fundamentalist Christians so...well...crazy? 

Obviously, this thought process was not right. Sure, there are atheists and anti-theists who are extremely intelligent and well-educated. But, there are also religious people similarly intelligent and well-educated. In fact, I was being taught by one such man, though I didn't realize Eric was a Christian until he casually brought it up during writer's group one night. Needless to say, I quickly dropped the silly notion that all people who believed in God were fucking idiots. But, I still figured there was no God, now mostly for moral reasons. 

It was then I began to seriously wrestle with what Epicurus called, "The problem of God and suffering", specifically in regards to the Christian faith. Throughout my life, I'd heard many a Christian attempt to tackle the paradox, but they all failed to actually face it. Mostly, they tip-toed around the issue and said a lot of words. But, I wasn't looking for a politician-style answer to such a serious question. I wanted to face the "Good God, Evil World" questions head-on. I wanted a final, one-liner answer, especially after all I'd gone through. 

Personally, I believe it's easy for people to dodge questions regarding God's morality, or lack thereof, only when they have experienced minimal suffering themselves. Sure, everyone knows about the starving orphans in third world countries and wards at Children's Hospital filled with dying cancer patients. But, thankfully, most people will never get to see or experience such horrific things first-hand. Honestly, I envy those people, and I hope they can stay sheltered from it for their whole lives. I still often wish I was blissfully ignorant of the horrors of this sick world.

Yet, there are advantages to being so painfully aware of the world's faults. Cystic Fibrosis, if anything, has forced me to become rather intimate with death. I've spent my entire life meditating on the fact that I would die one day, likely much sooner than my peers. I was forced to face suffering every day. I woke up in pain, and I fell asleep in pain. I even dreamt in pain. For awhile, I wrapped myself up in that misery like a child's security blanket. I more or less became a nihilist. I was (and still am) unafraid of death, and I became indifferent to suffering. I just got on with life. I focused on graduating high school, which now actually seemed possible. So long as I managed to live for another 180 days or so, I'd live to see my high school diploma. That was one of my few motivations, besides my love towards my friends and family, that got me up and at 'em in the morning. 

Indeed, even my lump-of-coal for a heart was motivated to keep beating because of love. 

Fall had arrived. The weather had suddenly shifted from sunny and eighty, to cold, wet, windy, and barely making forty, just in time for me to embark on a pronghorn hunt with an organization called Outdoor Buddies (CF was at least good for some things, such as getting special accommodations to help me hunt North America's fastest land animal). No matter what they believe in, hunters have always described hunting as an overtly spiritual experience. There's just something about being a participant in nature like every other living thing; actively participating in the great circle of life. Life feeds life. When a prey animal dies, it feeds the predator. When the predator dies, it feeds the ground. Most prey animals eat the ground. When one thing dies, it allows another thing to live. Cliche, I know. But, it's true. 

I knew the spirituality of hunting very well, for I'd hunted before for wild turkey and pronghorn. This hunt, at least to me, would be routine and no different from the others. But, that doesn't mean it was no big deal. Hunting has always been a religious and sacred activity, even for atheist me. I harvested my first turkey right as I was losing my Christian faith at that private Christian school, and I'd gone pronghorn hunting as a sick and bitter atheist just months later. Both hunting trips brought me away from the chaos of life in a civilized society, as well as away from the mountains of medicine and massive machinery I relied on to stay barely alive. Leaving all that bullshit behind for a weekend or so made me feel like a million bucks, even when I was actively dying of Pseudomonas during my first pronghorn hunt. 

As non-religious I was at the time, out on those wide open plains hunting for pronghorn number two, relatively healthy and well, I felt like I was close and connected to my Creator. Standing atop great plateaus, I could see the whole world. My hunting guide and I watched for the bouncing, white butts of the pronghorn below from our flat, grassy perches. We saw lots and lots of pronghorn, and I even got close enough to a few to try for a shot. But, during the first day of the hunt, none of the animals I had in the crosshairs of my .243 were in the right position for me to fire upon. 

During the hunt, I was followed around by plenty of curious pronghorn bucks, who during the rut only had one thing on their mind. One even got so close to me, that my hunting guide ended up pulling me closer to his side and putting himself between me and the buck, worrying the reddish brown creature might get a little too... well... comfortable. Since I had a doe tag, I couldn't shoot him. But, if I had a tag for a buck, that cocky son of a bitch would've been sirloins on the grill that evening! 

As the day wore on, the weather deteriorated very quickly, especially during the last hour or so of daylight. A strong cold front was pushing through from the northwest, bringing with it strong, frigid winds and a potential for heavy, wet snow. I was no longer enjoying my time spent outside when the pronghorn began to huddle in hidden hollows and valleys on the Great Plains, and I was still stuck on plateau tops with my hunting guide, fighting to stay warm in the thirty mile per hour winds and below-freezing temperatures. My hunting guide didn't seem to notice me suffering until a particularly strong gust of wind made me brush up against the leeside of him, sheltering myself from the cold. Shivering and a little disappointed about ending the hunt empty-handed, I carefully followed my guide down the steep side of the plateau, where his truck sat parked and idling. Just before the sun sank below the horizon, we called it a day, and vowed to return at the butt crack of dawn the next day, continuing the hunt. 

The next morning, at around eight, I downed a large pronghorn doe after finding her grazing by some railroad tracks along with a few other lone does. I shot her just perfectly, and she died instantly. When I reached her laying still and bloodied in the stubby grass, I knelt down by her and placed a hand on her warm, wiry fur. There, I said a quick though intimate prayer, thanking no God in particular for providing me with an elderly game animal who would feed me for months, as well as thanking the doe herself in case her spirit was nearby and could understand what I was saying.

Yet, I still considered myself an atheist. Possibly even an anti-theist. 

The following winter was a tough one, to say the least. I continued to struggle with reoccurring Pseudomonas in my lungs and sinuses. I'd get rid of it with a combination of phage therapy and antibiotics, and I'd be healthy for a few weeks, only for the infection to return someway or another. We didn't know it at the time, but our house had sunk into the ground so much over the decades, that a few pipes were crushed under the foundation. The water from those pipes leaked into the walls, where mold, mildew, and Pseudomonas thrived. Parts of the house did smell musty, but we could never figure out the source.

As a result, I continued to get sick over and over again, forcing me to stay with my grandparents or with my stepdad, Clarke, while my mom stayed home and did her best to find where my illnesses were coming from. My mom's boyfriend-at-the-time was also anti-vaccination, and that year's flu season was pretty nasty. I was vaccinated, but that didn't stop me from almost getting a severe case of the flu from him. I ended up staying at Clarke's for six weeks while taking antibiotics, anti-flu medication, and continuing my phage treatments. All while I still kept up in school. 

I don't think I can ever express how thankful I was (and am) for being able to finish high school online, especially since I got along so well with my teacher. I wouldn't have been able to graduate high school without being able to attend school from the comfort of wherever I was staying, often while still in my pajamas. It enabled me to take care of myself while also working towards my goal of graduating high school. Now that I think about it, it's hard to deny that getting into online school was what many would call a "God thing". Sure, I had to suffer for it. But, to be honest, the suffering was worth it. Maybe, just maybe, I can say I am glad that I suffered. 

But, if you were to ask me if online high school was worth it while I was in the midst of hell, I don't think I would've said, "yes". Back then, I still secretly hoped that I would one night go to sleep and never wake up, for the pain I was suffering was often unbearable. 

On top of Pseudomonas, I was showing signs of severe inflammation throughout my body, and I was also struggling with low blood sugar issues. It got to the point where I was once again pondering if life was even worth living. Thankfully, I never got close to thinking about hurting myself. But, I was just so damn exhausted. I was sure my body would eventually give up, much like my spirit had. 

Yet, throughout all of this, I was being prayed for. While I had no faith at all, others in my life did have faith, and they prayed for me every day and night. They made sure I knew this too, but was once again reacting to their prayers with open hostility. I refused to believe in a God who was supposedly all good and all loving, yet still allowed people like myself to survive. What was the point of all that suffering? Why was I chosen to be born a genetic fuck-up? If God had actually knit me in my mother's womb, knowing exactly who I'd turn out to be, wouldn't that make Him evil and sadistic? What good and loving Creator would create someone like me? A sick, terrified, pissed-off, dying kid. What the fuck was God thinking when He created me? 

Ironically, as bitter and resentful as I was, my heart was beginning to crack open just a tiny bit. But, it was enough for God to get His foot in the door. I didn't even realize I was becoming less bitter until I caught myself praising God for the first time, about a year and a half after my heart began to soften ever so slightly. 

 

Roughly two years after I'd been infected by Pseudomonas for the second time, I graduated high school with grades I could be proud of. But, not all was well. My health continued to decline in other areas besides my respiratory system. My lungs were doing very well, but my digestion and joints were not. I'm not sure what triggered it, but one day I woke up to my joints being incredibly stiff and sore. In the past, I felt the weather changing in my joints, but not to the point of limping like I suddenly was that day. 

As for my digestion, I was suffering terribly from a lack of appetite. I could hardly eat. Oftentimes, just the scent of food was enough to trigger my gag reflex. Reflecting back, I'm pretty sure my CF-Related-Diabetes was the main cause for this. My body refused food because food hurt it. Even with the maximum dose of enzyme medication and various prescription probiotics, I could hardly digest a single calorie. 

Staring at myself in the mirror just before taking a shower, I could count nearly every rib in my body. My hip bones protruded out of my skin. I could see the creases of bone within my knees. My hands and toes were blue, not just because I was cold, but because my veins were so close to the surface of my skin without any fat to insulate them. Permanent dark circles outlined my sunken eyes. My hair was alarmingly thin and splitting at the ends. My teeth were forever yellowed and nicked from years and years of corrosive medications. My heart surgery scars, while faded, were still very visible, especially since I was so pale and skinny. 

Blood rushed into my cheeks as I began to curse my own body. I was so ragged and sickly looking. I was very much ashamed of my scrawny physique. I resembled more of a mangy, rabid coyote than a woman. I worked my ass off just to gain a pound, but it seemed like for every step forward I took, I was forced to take two steps back. And, there wasn't shit I could do about that. 

Once again, I began to meditate on my mortality, knowing damn well I was more or less an undead from World of Warcraft; living on borrowed time. Well, by then, I can't say I was actually living. My spirit was broken. Whatever will I had to live was dwindling. Any part of me that was still in the fight was rapidly losing its influence on the rest of me. 

Yet, whenever I reached out for help, or simply tried to vent, I was almost always shut down. Either I was called "overdramatic" or a "killjoy", or I was told I just needed to fake a smile until I made it, or I was told to pray the Cystic Fibrosis away. Hardly ever did anyone just sit down and let me vent. They never had to say a thing. Just having someone sitting quietly in my presence while I ranted about the excruciating things in life, would've really gone a long way. But, instead, if I ever wanted to truly rant, I had to do so in personal writings, or completely alone behind closed doors. For, everyone else around me was in denial of the fact that I was dying, and doing so fast as fuck. Unless there was a miracle, I gave myself ten years to live at most. If Pseudomonas or B. Cepacia, or any other nasty infection took hold of my airways again, I figured I'd only survive five years more. 

 

Roughly five months after I miraculously graduated high school with grades I was proud of, the FDA suddenly announced that they were approving a new medication called Trikafta (Note to myself: Elaborate on this topic, and tell the story of trying to go fishing only for your body to betray you, so you cussed out God in your car and begged Him for a solution or to leave you alone, then when you got home, you discovered Trikafta had been approved by the FDA several months earlier than expected). Trikafta was ridiculously effective at not only minimizing the symptoms of CF, but was shown to actually reverse years' worth in damage caused by CF! In other words, the next best thing to Trikafta would be practically a cure for the condition. 

By then, I'd more or less given up trying to fight Cystic Fibrosis. I was in the worst condition since I almost died from Pseudomonas in the middle of high school. My joints were swollen and stiff. My lung function was tanking. I had very little energy. My sinuses were severely congested. I was physically weak and underweight. I'd given up on the idea of college, and spent my entire year off just trying to survive the week. Overall, I was just a dying mess. 

When Trikafta was approved, I was honestly very skeptical of it. I'd heard the success stories and seen the results of the studies, but to me, it sounded quite similar to the "miracle" medications I'd taken in the past. Those past medications did give me some of my health back, but they never did anything substantial. I figured Trikafta would be similar. Perhaps, Trikafta could help get me back to my old self, but I never expected it to give me a second chance at life. 

Still, a tiny piece of me was hopeful that Trikafta would live up to the hype. That tiny piece of me was often caught praying when all was quiet, asking God for guidance and to answer if that so-called "miracle" drug would practically give me a new body. I usually felt silly whenever I prayed. At the time, I still didn't really believe God existed. I thought I was just talking to myself whenever I prayed. However, I kept doing it, because even if I was just talking to myself, it was comforting to talk to myself and try to imagine what Trikafta might do for me. I was on a waitlist for the medication, and was in the back of the line because my lung function was still exceptional for someone with my condition. So, I had plenty of time to weigh the pros and cons of the medication as I learned more and more about it. Those were some of the longest, most nerve-wracking few months in my life. 

Then, a few days after Christmas 2019, I got the call I'd been waiting for.

My heart pounded like a war drum as the pharmacist handed me the colorful box containing the Trikafta pills. I was instructed to take two yellow pills in the morning, and one blue pill at night, all with fatty food to help it digest properly. I was also warned that the week ahead of me would be very difficult. Everyone called it "The Purge". Basically, Trikafta (if it did its job properly) would clean years' worth in built-up mucus from my body. During the mucus purge, I'd be pretty sick. I'd be constipated. I'd be coughing up cups and cups of mucus from my lungs. Mucus would stream out of my nostrils like water from a faucet. I'd be shitting straight mucus for days. My uterus would also give birth to a mucus baby. 

The thought of all of that happening to me was frightening, to put it lightly. I was absolutely fucking terrified, but I couldn't back out of it. If Trikafta did its job, it would add decades on my lifespan. But, if I refused to take the damn pills because I was afraid of the great mucus evacuation, not only would I a huge chicken, I would essentially be committing suicide. So, while my grandma Debbie and grandpa Shawn watched me like hawks, I took my first ever dose of Trikafta with a hearty plate of steak and eggs from Outback. 

Within an hour, I was coughing almost non-stop. I apparently sounded like a demonic dog. Within several hours, I had coughed up more mucus than I've coughed up throughout my entire life. The next day, my sinuses began to clear out. I only needed to tilt the Neti pot once to kick off the nasal tsunami, and within ten minutes I was completely cleared out. Two days later, I was in the shower when it happened. I gave birth to a mucus baby. It didn't hurt, but it was really, really uncomfortable (insert WAP joke here). By day four, my bowels had completely clogged. I did everything I knew to do to unclog myself. I took large capfulls of laxatives with apple juice and hearty handfuls of prunes and Gas-X for a couple days, but all I ended up with was a bloated stomach and excruciating pain. Finally, my grandma picked up some prescription level laxatives for me. And, let's just say, I annihilated the thunder bucket for four hours straight. The relief was absolutely glorious! 

Like the scientists promised, Trikafta quite literally gave me a brand new body. Over the next few months or so after my body had been successfully purged of mucus, I discovered I could do all sorts of things I'd never been able to do before. My sense of smell had returned, after I'd been almost completely nose-blind for years. I first noticed it just as the first scents of spring wafted through the air. For the first time in God-knows-how-long, I could smell the sweet scent of neighborhood flowers as I walked past their beds and bushes. I especially loved the earthy yet sweet scent of the ponderosa pine trees (it's still one of my favorite scents), and the subtle scent of fresh water rising up from the melting snow on warmer days. 

I was also gaining weight like never before, even though my appetite wasn't nearly as impressive as it was prior to Trikafta. Because my body could digest food way easier, I required less medication with every meal, and my diet was no longer restricted to lean foods. I could finally eat spicy tacos, drink whole milk, and enjoy birthday cake without suffering a gastric exorcism hours later. Food also tasted way better now that I had a much better sense of smell. Within just a few short months, I'd gained over ten pounds, much of that being in muscle.

Of course, my energy levels were through the roof, which is how I gained so much muscle in such little time. For the first time in my life, I was no longer embarrassed by my skeletal body, for I no longer looked like I starved myself. I had an easier time regulating my body temperature too. Cold air didn't seem to bother me so much, and neither did dust or pollen in the wind. I also found out, a little later on, that Pseudomonas no longer posed a dire threat to my health like it used to, which meant I could safely go swimming and fishing in fresh water again. 

But, there was another side to these wonderful things. Due to the dramatic increase in energy, my body had too much excess energy to know what to do with. I tried to get it all out by doing a week's worth in chores every day, as well as going for miles' long jogs and walks every chance I had. But, it still wasn't enough, and all that excess energy caused me to go through a period of extreme physical anxiety attacks. 

They almost always started with my heart racing out of the blue. I'd try to slow it down by taking control of my breathing and taking in long, deep breaths. But, living with CF for eighteen years made me a little too conscious about my breathing for so long. Taking control and focusing on my breath scared me, because I'd always start to think about how well my lungs were doing, and tuning in to feel if there was anything wrong. As those who have experienced anxiety attacks before know, when you're going through an anxiety attack, it often feels like you can never get enough air. I felt like my airways were constricting, and my chest couldn't expand far enough for me to get a full breath in. I'd then start to really panic as my heart raced faster and faster, skipping beats as it did so. It snowballed downhill from there. 

These attacks lasted anywhere from five minutes to five hours, and sometimes I had multiple attacks every day, and woke up in the midst of one at night. It was hell. 

I was in constant contact with my doctors, because Trikafta was still a very experimental drug. Every two months, I had to get my blood drawn to ensure that my liver could handle the medication, and I was told to not eat anything with grapefruit or alcohol. Grapefruit interacted with Trikafta and made it much less effective, and the doctors didn't know if my liver could handle Trikafta and alcohol at the same time. 

I alerted my doctors of this sudden rise in physical anxiety almost as soon as I started to deal with it. Unfortunately, my doctors were a little nervous about prescribing me medication right away, as some anti-anxiety medications could interact negatively with Trikafta. But, while they researched further, my doctors assured me that I wasn't alone. Many people on Trikafta reported a sharp increase in anxiety and depression symptoms. At the time (January-February 2020), doctors didn't know why Trikafta caused such symptoms for about 20% of those who were taking the drug. It wouldn't be until late 2020 that scientists would discover Trikafta sometimes negatively messed with the brain, causing some people to experience much more severe anxiety and depression symptoms than usual. 

Other than that, I was completely at the mercy of my merciless anxiety. It made me moderately agoraphobic, especially when I experienced anxiety attacks alone in public, and at times even while I was driving. I became afraid to drive or go out in public alone, and if I felt even a slightly bad feeling, I would refuse to leave the house unless someone I knew was with me at all times. Or, if I was driving, I'd immediately pull over and let my passenger drive. This really stifled my ability to get outside every day and exercise, or go out and see people. It also killed my hopes of going to college starting in the fall of 2020 (I tried online college in January. I found the work doable, but the professor was shit, so I dropped out two weeks later). 

I was, once again, bitter. I felt betrayed, not just by Trikafta, but God Himself. I felt like I'd been duped into being hopeful once again. Like I was the butt of yet another sick joke. Sure, I had my physical health back, but in exchange, my mental health tanked further than it ever had since middle school. If I couldn't get back on my feet in a few months, I'd quit taking Trikafta. I figured it was better to die in ten years than suffer from debilitating anxiety attacks every day and night. I didn't want to spend another fifty or sixty years suffering like that. 

Once again, a glimmer of hope came in the form of a couple medications: sertraline and propranolol. Sertraline was a mild anti-depressant that basically encouraged my brain to produce a little more of the happy chemical known as serotonin. Propranolol was a mild medication to help slow down my heart rate. While I wasn't too thrilled about adding two more medications to my existing mountain of daily pills, I was desperate for some relief from the anxiety.  

It took awhile, but the medications, even at small doses, really did work! Over a period of a few months, my anxiety attacks gradually became less aggressive and less debilitating. My heart rate slowed down to a reasonable pace. And, I could sleep through the night, peacefully and at ease. 

But, I must admit, the night before my doctor called to tell me that I could try those two medications, I woke up from yet another anxiety attack. Instead of pacing around my bedroom for over an hour, trying (and failing) to use breathing techniques to calm myself down, I noticed I had placed my old study bible on my night stand. I had dug it out shortly after I started taking Trikafta, as I thought that maybe God was there after all. But, I never really got around to reading it, and never had the desire to crack it open, until that cold, dark, February night. 

Flipping through my bible's delicate pages, I came across 1 Kings. There, I had the inexplicable urge to read it. Nothing really seemed to resonate with me for the first eighteen chapters or so, but I just couldn't put the Bible down. I can't really explain why, but I just had this iresistable urge to keep reading. As I did so, my heart rate gradually slowed down to its resting pace. My breathing naturally returned to normal. My body no longer felt tingly with anxiety. My mind was no longer haunted by a deep sense of dread. Then, just as I felt relaxed enough to put the Bible down and go to sleep, I started to read about Elijah. There, it clicked. 

In chapter 19 of 1 Kings, Elijah fled from Israel (which, at the time, had turned its back on God, and Elijah was trying to bring them back to Him) after his life was threatened by the leaders of Israel. Elijah was terrified, even though he and God had full-on conversations all the time, and God had given Elijah miraculous abilities in order to reclaim Israel for the Lord. Elijah sprinted into the wilderness, until he eventually collapsed under a tree from exhaustion. There, between heavy breaths, Elijah cried out, "I've had enough, Lord! Kill me; I am no better than my ancestors." Finally, Elijah laid down and fell asleep. 

Some time later, Elijah was tapped on the shoulder. He sat up, only to hear an angel tell him, "Get up and eat." 

The angel had prepared a meal for Elijah. So, Elijah ate his meal, and went back to sleep. For a couple more days, the angel fed Elijah and let him sleep, telling him that he needed to physically recover before embarking on his next journey. 

Once Elijah had recovered just enough, he was prompted by the angel to travel forty days through the wilderness, until he arrived at a cave on mount Horeb; the Mountain of God. 

The next day, God came to the cave and asked Elijah what he was doing there. Elijah explained that he had been chased out of Israel and his life had been threatened. So, he ran away to the mountains where he now was, utterly crushed and disheartened by what just happened. 

God then commanded Elijah to watch outside the cave. There, Elijah witnessed a mighty wind to blow through, and then a great earthquake followed it. After the earthquake, there was fire. But, God wasn't in the elements. It wasn't until things got silent and still again that Elijah could feel God's presence and hear His voice. 

By then, I was in tears. I finally resonated with the Bible. And, for the first time ever, I realized I had actually connected with the Lord. While I heard no voices besides my own internal monologue, I just knew God was telling me, "It's okay to be struggling right now. It is normal, and I love you." Even as I type this, I can feel my eyes welling up with tears. It was just such a profound, inexplicable moment. Like a switch had been flipped somewhere within me, and I was no longer numb to the presence of God. 

I sat, still and frozen in bed, just resting with the feeling as hot tears streamed down my cheeks. For the first time in forever, I felt truly at peace. I just knew that I would be okay, no matter what. All of my anxieties surrounding my physical and mental health were gone for the moment. And, all of my anxiety surrounding my spiritual health would leave me forever, for the most part. I no longer questioned if this nonessential issue or that nonessential issue kept me from being a Christian. I no longer feared my depression and anxiety were signs that I just hadn't found God yet. Even God's most faithful servants all throughout the bible suffered from anxiety and depression at some point. Even God in the Flesh, Jesus Christ, experienced such things while dying on the cross, prompting Him to cry out, "My God, my God. Why have You forsaken Me?"

As it turns out, God had not forsaken His Son, and neither did He forsake me. In the morning after I'd read 1 Kings, I got the green light from my doctors to start taking the anti-anxiety medications, which got me back on my feet. 

While this medication kicked in, I became more outgoing. I got outside more, my mood was much lighter, and I began to feel normal again; a much healthier, happier version of my former self. And, my faith in God had been fully restored. After years of atheism and hardship, my stubborn knees had bowed at the feet of Christ.

I finally accepted His free gift of salvation. I was finally back home. 

But, a small part of me worried that I was just riding on joy. And, as soon as things got hard, I'd renounce my faith. I even expressed these worries in my prayers, hoping for an answer. Although, I didn't want to have to go through anything terrible again to get my answer. But, God had different plans. 

Covid-19 hadn't been added to my vocabulary until late February; a few weeks after I started my anti-anxiety medication. And, it didn't become a serious thing to me until a weekend in early March. 

I was at Clarke's when the rumors of a nationwide lockdown began to circulate. Being all the way out in Elizabeth, Colorado, I thought I was safe from the panic-buying. Man, was I wrong! People from as far as northwest Denver flooded into the rural community to stock up on supplies. Everything from toilet paper to canned goods was wiped clean off the shelves at pretty much every store in the nation. Thankfully, Cystic Fibrosis made me a bit of a doomsday prepper long before it was cool. I already had all the N95s, toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and cleaning supplies I could ask for. Knowing how sought after those commodities were, I ended up storing most of what I had in a hidden storage compartment in my Xterra, worrying people might get desperate enough to break into my truck for the roll of toilet paper I kept in the backseat for CF-related digestive emergencies. The rest I stored in my basement storage room when I got home from Clarke's. 

My anxiety began to rise again, especially as the virus started to ravage the United States, and various Cystic Fibrosis sites began to email me near-daily warnings about the dangers covid posed to people like me, and how we could avoid getting it. Yet, my faith in God did not waver. I did not let my anger or bitterness turn me hostile towards God. If anything, I only got closer to God, even though an unfortunate majority of the Christians I knew weren't following the science, and instead were actively rebelling against the scientists' pleas to wear masks and physically distance from loved ones. All for incredibly selfish reasons. 

I had lots and lots of questions again. But, instead of questioning the love and power of God, I began to question why so many so-called "Christians" were so selfish. Why were they refusing to do what they could to protect themselves and others? Why were they claiming they were inspired by their faith in God to rebel against covid restrictions? Did they even believe in the same God that I did? 

So began a brand new chapter in my faith (and life). Instead of wrestling with the perfection of a Creator of a fallen world, I began to wrestle with the selfishness and stupidity of those who claimed to be Christians, and especially of those I once thought were some of the brightest, most selfless people in my life. I also prayed daily and nightly for those I knew and loved, regardless if they were doing what they could to stay safe during a pandemic. In fact, I prayed more for the covid deniers than I prayed for those I knew were taking the pandemic seriously, because the anti-maskers needed the most prayers. 

While I was worried about my own wellbeing during the pandemic, I wasn't nearly as scared for myself as I was afraid for others. I mulled over every scenario I could think of for if I caught covid, and I did the same for each of my loved ones. I perpetually worried about what if this friend or that family member got covid. It was truly horrific to ponder, but I couldn't stop it. 

Thankfully, while the lockdowns and constant news coverage on the virus made it feel like I'd never see my loved ones or go for a peaceful walk around Clement park ever again, I did have a bolt hole; Ken Caryl Valley. Specifically, the valley's fifty miles of private hiking trails I had access to thanks to my home address. While all of the public trailheads on Colorado's front range were packed full of people bored to tears due to being home 24/7, the private trails in Ken Caryl were incredibly peaceful and almost completely people-free.

I usually saw more mule deer than people. In fact, those deer were everywhere, and they got to know me pretty well. Within a month, the mule deer were like my pets. Of course, I never fed or touched them, but they were so used to humans that they followed me closely wherever I went. The birds and coyotes were also just as friendly. I swear, I could talk to the animals and they could understand me.

With all of God's wild creatures following right behind me, I hiked the red dirt trails up and over foothills, under the branches of the great Ponderosa Pines, through creeks swollen with snowmelt, and across wide grassy valleys that stretched north to south for as far as the eye could see. I was hiking out there nearly every day, snow or shine, wind or calm, taking in all of the sights and sounds of late winter and early spring. Out there, in those quiet foothills, my worries and fears were dispelled by the glory and awe of God's artistry. My heart swelled with praise for His works, and I constantly thanked God for creating such amazing things. I noticed things that I'd never noticed before, such as the sweet, subtle scent of wildflowers on the breeze, or the gentle feeling of cold stream water rushing through my fingers when I dipped my hand in the creeks.

Since coming to Christ, the natural world just seemed brighter, more vibrant. Trikafta helped enhance my senses too. 

I prayed about covid while I was on my hours' long hikes. While hiking, I was able to remain calm, and pray seriously and clearly about even the scariest things covid had to offer. I prayed for the health and safety of my loved ones. I said the names of every friend and family member I had aloud, asking God to keep them safe, healthy, and most importantly, alive. Even if the worst case scenario happened, I prayed that God would give them and me peace, and we would meet again on a new Earth someday. 

Truly, what a friend of Jesus I was. 

After those long hikes, I returned home feeling completely at peace and refreshed. In the shower, I washed the dirt and leaves off my skin and out of my hair, continuing to pray for my loved ones while also thanking God for creating such majestic landscapes, and allowing me the opportunity to explore them. Without Trikafta, I would've been far too sick to hike out there as much as I did, and I would've been way too afraid of covid to leave my bedroom. Without Trikafta, covid would've been a death sentence had I gotten it before I got vaccinated against it. Thank God, literally, that Trikafta came out when it did. 

Easter Sunday soon came, but there were no family celebrations or in-person church sermons that day, at least for us. Instead, me and my household spent the day dyeing Easter eggs with food coloring instead of with a dye kit, for stores were barred from selling non-essential items during the first quarter of the pandemic. They turned out much more vibrant than we expected. When we ran out of eggs to dye, I grabbed my paints, and we painted little cards to send to family and friends. That night, we had a huge roasted turkey all to ourselves, and I fell asleep with a stomach full of turkey and stuffing. 

But, much more importantly than turkey and chocolate cream eggs, was the Easter holiday itself, and what it truly meant. 

While my mom and little brother were at the park across the street, I sat down at my piano and played the song "He Lives", by ear, among other songs. I never (and still don't) like to play music in front of people (I struggle to write and draw in the presence of others, too). But, I love to play the piano and guitar, the piano being my favorite instrument to play and listen to. 

I don't really know how to put things like this into words, but it was almost as if God was playing the piano using my fingers. I played hymn after hymn absolutely perfectly, including hymns I hadn't memorized the lyrics to. I rarely got every note in a song just right, and up until that Easter afternoon, I'd never gotten the notes perfectly for multiple songs in a row. I was absolutely elated by this, so much so that I pulled out my phone and began to record myself playing.

Oh, if only I'd saved those recordings before that phone finally gave in after several years of abuse. 

Anyway, the hymns I played on the piano were all centered around the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ; God in the Flesh. Christ rose from the dead three days after being crucified, not to stop people and animals from dying a physical death, but to save them from having to pay for their sins in eternal damnation. We're all filthy sinners, after all. But, we are well loved and cared about by the Creator of all things, as depraved as us humans can often be. All we have to do is accept the love of God, and we will be accepted into His kingdom. 

For the record, God does not send people to hell, nor does the bible ever say hell is a place of fire and demons armed with pitchforks. Hell is just a place were God is absent, and people choose to go there freely. As CS Lewis put it, "Hell is locked from the inside". 

For the longest time, I struggled with the mostly American evangelical belief that God actively damns people to hell, where they're literally tortured by cloven-hooved creatures and burned to a crisp in literal fire. It made no sense. How could an infinitely loving and merciful God condemn so many people to hell for eternity to pay for only sixty or seventy years worth in sins? Well, that question is only an issue if you subscribe to the biblically inaccurate story of Daunte's Inferno, where many people get their idea of hell. 

Finish this page later....

 

 

It was clear pandemic boredom had really settled in for me when I began to scour the internet for anything and everything I could find that discussed the Bible's original cultural, linguistic, and historical context. But, I soon figured out that studying the Bible's original context wasn't just fascinating, it was extremely important to know in order to actually get to know and understand the Creator of all things. Sadly, at least within the churches I've gone to thus far (and I've gone to numerous different churches over the years), pastors rarely, if ever, really put things into context. 

Without context, anyone can twist Scripture to say whatever the hell they want it to say. I've seen it happen within the walls of many churches and among many Bible study groups, and it really, really bothered me. I can't really explain it, but from the time I was a very little girl, I could just sense when a pastor was misusing God's Word, and it bothered me so much that I wouldn't shut up about it until my family promised to never take me there again. More often than not, my gut feelings were correct, and those churches were, in fact, preaching absolute dogshit all fifty-two Sundays of the year. 

As I grew up, I began to notice the same feeling whenever a trusted friend or family member started misusing Scripture. At first, I wasn't sure what to do with this and just kept my mouth shut. But, like everyone who has ever survived their teen years, I eventually grew into an adult and realized just how utterly fucking stupid the average adult was. And, many of those adults were people I loved and cared about. 

When I finally came to the realization that I was actually a legal adult capable of thinking maturely (while maintaining a very immature sense of self and humor, I'll add), I was no longer so shy about calling out other adults' bullshit when I heard it (One of the reasons why I deleted my social media accounts in the middle of the pandemic, was so I wouldn't roast my family members to oblivion for their abhorrently stupid political and religious views, and get myself disowned).

However, I hadn't yet learned how to call them out without rolling my eyes and blurting out, "Well, that's a ton of bullshit!" But, like all humans, I learned from such stupid mistakes, and decided to keep my mouth shut until I figured out how to call out people's blatant bullshit in a constructive way. Assuming there was, in fact, a constructive and polite way to call someone out for saying dumb shit like, "I won't wear a mask during the covid pandemic because God will protect me." 

Instead, I turned inward. I spent the summer of 2020 praying constantly. For protection, courage, strength, health, and most of all, faith. It was a terrifying time for everyone everywhere. While my faith in God didn't spare me from any pain, sorrow, anger, bitterness, or fear, it at least gave me somewhere to vent my deepest frustrations. Many nights I fell asleep talking to God as I would to a close friend. While I never really felt His presence, I knew He was omnipresent, and therefore with me just as He'd been with people like Elijah and Enoch. Sure, unlike those biblical figures, I was no saint. I wasn't any more special or worthy of God's love than anyone or anything else. But, while I couldn't have a dialogue with God quite like so many biblical figures had in this life, I could still communicate with God, knowing He could communicate back with me whenever and however He pleased. Sometimes, His silence was communication.

Indeed, there are times when silence is the answer to a person's deepest hurts.

Yet, while God wasn't very loud, I still noticed subtle changes and events that seemed to be evidence that God was hearing my prayers. Sometimes, it was just a slight tugging at my heart to go this way or that. Sometimes, it was as simple as a Youtube video recommendation, or an article someone posted in a blog. Sometimes, it was more overt, like an interesting run-in with a stranger, or a wave of peace washing over me in the midst of a particularly scary situation, or a sudden move across the country (yes, in many ways, my move to Washington was a God thing). 

Some may say that these were mere coincidences and/or tricks of the mind, and I will admit these signs were never really scientifically provable. But, as someone who has experienced many coincidences and mind tricks, these miniature acts of God were no mere coincidences or tricks. Unless big tech managed to microchip my thoughts, and every bird and person and particle of air was listening in on my silent conversations with God, there was no way in hell those events had a natural explanation. 

Each event left me feeling a bit more secure in my faith. The more my faith was strengthened, the stronger and more at peace I felt. The stronger and more at peace I felt, the physically healthier I became. The physically healthier I became, the more I was willing to get out and about more. It was a beautiful cycle. One that, for once in my life, lifted me up more and more instead of tore me down until my physical health tanked, taking my mental and spiritual health with it. 

This isn't to say that there weren't bumps in the road. As strong and confident as I was in my faith, I was still deeply anxious and upset over current events. I still relied on medication to fall asleep and keep my anxiety at bay. I still struggled to garner an appetite. I still grieved like I'd lost a loved one when I moved to Washington state. I still feared the worst whenever I heard that another loved one had been exposed to covid, and my heart still sank when their tests came back positive. 

Yet, while it oftentimes seemed like the end of the world was imminent, I still clung to my faith through it all. Contrary to what I originally feared, I didn't return to Christ just because of a temporary period of tremendous joy. I returned to Him because I'd spent years deconstructing my faith by facing the hard questions head-on, without fear of consequences. Deconstructing my faith like that didn't feel very good. It was incredibly painful, frustrating, and scary at times, not just for me, but everyone around me who was aware of what I was going through. But, despite getting close to joining the Church of Satan a number of times, I pressed on. As a result, I came rushing back into the arms of a merciful, loving God, with a faith much stronger (and much different), than the one I grew up around. 

I'd be damned if it wasn't worth it. 

Still, my journey with Christ has just begun, about a year or so into it. Most of those in my life don't know this, because I am purposefully silent about it. The vast majority of my walk with God is completely private. Between Him and I alone. This doesn't mean I never bring it up and share it with others. Clearly, if that was the case, I would've never sat down to write this account knowing others would read it. But, as Christ explained in Matthew chapters six and seven, and mentioned in letters such as Romans and Corinthians, personal matters of faith ought to remain between the individual and their Creator. 

I am still too new to this newfound faith of mine, and far too skittish, to start scoping out a church to call home. That, and at the time of writing this (April 2021), while I have been fully vaccinated against covid-19 for quite some time now, I'm still living quite nomadically. I am not yet ready to settle down in a new church. But, I trust that time will tell when it is time for me to hunt for a church to call home. There are many different churches near both of my houses in Gig Harbor, Washington and Ken Caryl, Colorado. I'm confident that I'll find a church that is of sound doctrine wherever I go. 

In the meantime, I've still been asking the "big questions" without fear or holding back any punches. I still have lots and lots of questions to wrestle with, and I'm sure when I come across an answer that actually answers the damn question, it will be replaced by five more equally challenging questions. This is a good thing. Contrary to what many Christians say (particularly those I grew up around), questions and doubts aren't the devil's attempts to pit us against our Creator. Instead, doubts and questions are essential for growth. Even fervent anti-theists seriously ponder if there is a God, and often doubt their beliefs (or lack thereof).

So far, these questions of mine have led me down some incredibly interested yet daunting paths. I have just started delving into some really heavy content involving biblical hermeneutics (the study of interpreting ancient texts according to their ancient contexts), spirituality, other religions, ancient Hebrew and Greek, science, and all sorts of heavy topics. There are some topics that I've understood quite easily. For example, it isn't hard to roughly translate the raw ancient Hebrew of the bible into modern English using the internet. But, more than half the time I'm reading Dr. Michael Heiser's books on the spiritual realm, I have absolutely no idea what I'm actually reading. It's not that Dr. Heiser sucks at explaining things (he's really good at making academic material readable for the layperson), I just am not quite ready for it in my spiritual journey. The time will soon come, however. I'm confident I'll be able to one day understand the spiritual realm and the symbolism found all over the Old and New Testaments as the Bible actually explains it. 

This thirst for knowledge has also made me a lot less hesitant to go beyond my comfort level. College no longer seems like a place I'll never make it in. If I can figure out how to translate Hebrew into English, and find the time and energy to wrestle with big questions few adults much older than myself can deal with, without the aid of professors and academic advisors, then I think I'll survive college just fine. 

I am, however, still worried about other aspects of my life as I transition into college. Will I manage to get over my social anxiety enough to introduce myself to others, or will I tuck my tail and avoid my peers and professors like the plague? Will I be able to keep my anxiety at bay, or will it rear its ugly head again and fuck up my grades? Where will I even be going to college to start? Will I go to Arapahoe Community College in Littleton, or will I end up going to the little Tacoma Community College campus in Gig Harbor, Washington? On and on...

Regardless of where I may end up, I'm again confident that everything will turn out alright. I have faith everything will be okay. 

While I wait for my time to settle down, I've taken advantage of my out-and-aboutness as much as possible. I spent the fall and winter of 2020 living in Washington state. Despite it being so cold, dark, and grey most days, I ventured outside as much as possible, getting lost in awe on the shores of the Puget Sound. Since coming back to Christ, my childlike love for nature and the outdoors has come back to me like never before. To be fair, I never really lost this love and reverence for the out-of-doors. But, for the darkest years of my life, I had very little energy or time to get out there. Immersing myself in nature documentaries and listening to songs about being in the woods only made me sad, as I knew I couldn't go hunting, fishing, or exploring like everyone else. But, now I can. 

However, just because I can, doesn't mean I'm comfortable enough to embark on the wildest adventures imaginable. Even though I logically know that I am no longer so susceptible to most water-borne bacterial or viral infections, and I can survive without electricity so long as I have enough medication to last however long I'll be off-the-grid, I am emotionally still a scrawny, weak, terrified little creature. If I'm ever gonna accomplish my dream of successfully hunting a giant Alaskan Grizzly Bear, I'm gonna need slow, gentle guidance and encouragement from friends and family who are well-versed with the outdoors and are willing to push me well beyond my limits, even if I start freaking out. But, I'll never ever stay in a spider-infested camper again, no matter what. Sorry, Dad.

Still, I do manage to push myself a little beyond my limits. I'm just starting to get used to being in water deeper than knee-deep, after years of fearing it due to the nasty infections I always got from swimming. But, it took a lot of courage. Almost too much for me to muster at first. In fact, the first few times I tried to venture into the Puget Sound with my jeans rolled up or my waders on, I chickened out. Hell, for the first couple months I lived in Gig Harbor, I was too apprehensive to venture onto the public docks where there were no railings protecting me from falling into the frigid ocean waters. And, even just the smells of wet earth and old wood was enough to send me running in for dry land and cleaner air. 

For a couple of months, that fear prevented me from getting to truly explore my surroundings. Not only was I frustrated at myself for being such a wuss, but I was quite embarrassed by my fear of the water. Or, more specifically, fear of the invisible life forms that could potentially colonize my airways and seriously harm me. Covid didn't help make the air seem any safer to breathe. Prior to getting my vaccine, I was just as hyper aware of the air I was breathing over a half a year into the pandemic, as I was when the shitshow first began. 

But, what kept me going, kept me going back for another try, kept me from beating myself up and snarling at my past, was reminding myself constantly of what God did for Elijah when he sprinted away from Israel with his tail between his legs. God didn't scold Elijah or call him names for giving into fear. Neither did God miraculously take away all of Elijah's fear with the snap of a finger. Instead, God and Elijah worked together to get over those fears. In the end, Elijah was victorious. And, Elijah never died a physical death. Instead, God took him in his flesh up to heaven in a fiery chariot, which, from my understanding, means Elijah had been sanctified fully on Earth. His flesh could stand to see the face of God. 

If Elijah was so precious to God despite his sins and fears, what made me think I wasn't also worthy of God's love and compassion despite my sins and fears? What made me think I shouldn't be loving and compassionate towards myself despite my fatal flaws? To be honest, I'm still wrestling with that question, as I am my worst critic. However, I will say, I'm starting to learn to love myself more, just as God does. Despite the imperfect, callous, vulgar, anxious genetic abomination that I am. 

In fact, I took this question to heart almost right away. Instead of hating myself for being such a coward, I gently coaxed myself into getting closer and closer to the water, starting with just sitting with the scent of mud at low tide for a minute longer each time I felt the urge to run away, and then rewarding myself with kind words for being so brave. Within a few months, I was wading waist-deep in the Puget Sound under the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, fishing pole in hand, happy as could be. 

But, I didn't do that just by myself. I asked God for help, as well. I was totally honest and open with Him about my fears and frustrations. After nearly every prayer in which I asked for help to overcome my fears, I was reminded of Elijah's story in 1 Kings. Not only did Elijah's story remind me that God loved me no matter how scared or upset I was, but it reminded me that life was not a race. Elijah spent over forty days meditating on his fears and transgressions in the wilderness. It took his entire life to get Israel back on the right path. Even when God took him home, the work was not yet complete. Elijah's servant, Elisha, took charge after he witnessed his best friend ascend to heaven aboard a flaming chariot.

It was not just okay, but encouraged, that I took my time to get used to things and over old fears. Life ain't a race. Society often claims that it is, but society isn't always right. It's okay and important to take one's sweet time. Slow and steady wins the race, after all! I know I'll die still just as flawed and sinful as I am now. But, because of Christ's sacrifice, I will still be shown mercy and love on my judgement day, literally for free, as Christ already paid for my sins on the cross. Throughout the rest of my life and into the next, I will be sanctified into the perfect being God intended us humans to be, just as He does for everyone who agrees to it. 

Sometime in the month of November or December (I can't quite remember), my great aunt and uncle of North Dakota both ended up with covid-19 at the same time. This was when a large portion of the state was infected with covid, and their hospitals were severely overwhelmed. My great aunt did okay, but my great uncle suffered a stroke, likely triggered by his illness. He was flown from his farm to a hospital in Bismarck by helicopter, where he spent the next three days on a gurney in the ER waiting room, alongside numerous other patients with all sorts of illnesses. It took two days for a neurologist to finally check him out, but only briefly. The prognosis wasn't good. 

He would need to undergo surgery to remove a blockage in an artery in his neck. It was an incredibly risky procedure; few doctors were willing to give it a try due to its high fatality rate. But, before going into surgery, doctors put him on blood-thinning medication to try to safely break it up, only for my uncle to suffer a series of mini-strokes as the blockage began to break up in tiny chunks, which flowed right up to his brain. 

To be honest, I didn't expect him to make it. But, despite preparing myself for the worst, I prayed that my great uncle would manage to make it. Late every night, for about a week, I prayed mainly for my great uncle. If it was his time to go home, I prayed that he'd suffer minimally. If it was not yet his time, I prayed for his swift recovery. 

Amazingly, my great uncle survived, and was flown via passenger plane to a rehab center in western North Dakota to regain the use of his left side, which had been partially paralyzed by his strokes. I don't really know most of the details, but from what I've heard, he has since regained control over most of his left hand and leg, and only struggles to move his fingers and toes. 

While I am well aware of the fact that my great uncle would've died had it not been for medical intervention, I still feel a spiritual connection to that event. For I believe that God can and does work through the hands of others. He made us smarter than the rest of the animal kingdom, after all. Unlike every other animal, we are so far the only species who can ponder the future, envision the bigger picture, and be enormously creative. We are certainly the only animals who regularly perform organ-transplant surgeries and find cures and defanging treatments to deadly diseases and conditions. But, why is this? Why are humans so far advanced? Why did God choose us, and not dolphins or dinosaurs, to be His image bearers? What does it even mean to bear the image of God? 

For starters, it's worth pointing out the obvious: Humans weren't literally created to be the image of God. Meaning, God is not some old, fat dude with a long, white beard in the sky. If that were so, everyone who didn't look like Santa Claus would not represent the Imago Dei. We also don't literally look like God in the spirit. Hell, it's even a stretch to say humans are the image of God because we are creative and intelligent, or because we can choose to act against our instincts, as we are not the only creatures on earth or in the spiritual realm capable of being creative, intelligent, or heroic. 

Even the Bible rejects such as ideas. I mean, just read Ecclesiastes (specifically Ecclesiastes 3, but I'll reiterate that it's important to understand the full context of Scripture), or Hebrews and Psalm 8. Not only is it scientifically inaccurate to say humans are physically and/or mentally like God, it is also Scripturally inaccurate. 

Instead, from how I currently understand it, humans were chosen by God out of the rest of His creation to bear His image. As a result, we were able to advance far beyond any other animal on earth, and we will also judge the angels in heaven, and be served by them (in other words, our spirits are much more powerful than even God's highest angels, as not even the angels are the Imago Dei). 

To bear God's image doesn't mean we literally look or think like Him. It means that we are incredibly loved and valued by God, no matter who we are, and God wants us to be a part of His creative process. It means that we are creative and free as Him (although we're definitely not little gods ourselves, for God is infinitely more powerful than we'll ever be. As far as I'm aware, nowhere in Scripture does it say we'll ever possess the ability to speak things into existence, only that we'll judge the angels and rule over the earth).

We were brought into an unfinished world, as God intended us to be creative with Him (hence is why God never said creation was perfect, but instead called it very good). You see, in Genesis, the Hebrew word for "Subdue" (which is what God commanded humans to do to the rest of creation in Genesis 1:28), is not a gentle word. It literally means to step on the neck of creation, and completely contradicts the idea that T-rex was a peaceful creature who lived off of watermelons 6,000 years ago. 

Just based on that one word (although there are many others within Genesis and other biblical texts that imply violence), I see no reason why the idea of humans evolving from animals that lived millions and millions of years ago, would butt heads with Scripture. Shockingly, there was physical death long before Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden.

When Adam and Eve sinned, they didn't bring the process of dying into the world. Physical death was already a thing, as is implied when God commanded humanity to multiply (which would quickly turn into an ecological disaster without death. Not to mention, eating certain plants, such as broccoli and cabbage, usually results in that plant dying, and cells are dying every second of every day. Without the death of cells, people couldn't grow up, heal wounds, or take a piss, resulting in all sorts of other issues). Instead, the communion Adam and Eve had with God in the garden was severed. 

In other words, Adam and Eve's fall created the possibility for someone to spiritually die, hence throwing Adam and Eve into an imperfect and unfinished world completely unprotected from it, and at great risk of ending up separated from God for eternity. And, as a result of that, anyone was, is, and will be at risk of spiritually dying. That is, to be separated from God forever and ever on their own volition. 

Now, I must admit, I'm not done wrestling with this idea (which is why I previously said my opinion on this may change in the future). This means that I am not a very reliable person to lean into regarding the question of what it means to be the Imago Dei, or any other major, complex spiritual question for that matter. I am merely trying to put into words what my feeble mind has managed to grasp from the big dogs of various academic circles. I am almost certain that I've butchered a lot of the answers to these big spiritual questions, and I'm damn sure I'll butcher many, many more explanations in the near and far future. My hope is that I'll merely plant seeds of curiosity in those who are willing to follow those questions down rabbit hole after rabbit hole. 

So, if you really want to know the answers to the ever-growing list of insanely difficult theological questions, ask the PhD's who have spent their lives studying this material. Not this idiot who barely managed to graduate high school. 

Anyway...

 

 

 

 Still, while this realization of the purpose of humans being the Image of God, as well as my previous conclusions regarding the "problem" of evil and suffering, certainly made a lot of things make a lot more sense, new concerns made their presence known in my mind.

The constant cold and dreary weather of Washington state was starting to really get to me. I was sinking into depression more and more despite my best efforts to claw my way out of it, simply because there was hardly a ray of sunshine burning its way through the constant blanket of low-lying clouds. I was also more homesick than ever, and I cried myself to sleep many nights as a result of my longing to return to the Front Range of Colorado. I was also deeply, deeply afraid due to how severe the covid pandemic had become, especially with a one-term president in office who had no desire to help the country after getting decimated in the 2020 presidential election. 

Things seemed bleak as ever. My strength and will to do much of anything besides lay in bed all day was waning. Anger, discouragement, depression, and fear ruled over my consciousness and seeped into the nightly dreams I seldom remembered. My relationship with my household was severely strained. Mom and I got along like two cats with our tails tied together. Family gatherings happened only out-of-doors, masked, socially distanced, etc, which wasn't ideal for Washington state in the winter. Even I, an autistic, extremely introverted, borderline hermit, was desperate for in-person human interaction beyond my immediate family. Even I needed a hug from someone other than those who lived under the same roof as me. Even I had a deep longing for community. Even I was beginning to contemplate throwing caution to the wind and, in a way, was romanticizing a lengthy hospital stay or worse. 

But, whenever I found myself seated in my Xterra preparing to go into a store, wondering if the gas mask was really necessary, I quickly remembered what it was like to get sick before. Cystic Fibrosis has taught me many lessons the extremely hard way, including what it's like to be hospitalized with a severe lung infection. If I could barely handle being hospitalized with a family member by my side at all times, there was absolutely no way I could survive a hospital stay completely isolated from my loved ones, and infected with a barely understood novel disease. That, I knew for a fact!

As much as I began to hate my gas mask, rubber gloves, and the stinging scent of hand sanitizer, I knew from past experiences that the alternative was much worse. Sure, wearing masks and keeping my distance from others for so long really, really sucked. But, ya know what would've sucked infinitely more? Ending up on life support in an overcrowded ICU. 

Still, I needed to get around others despite the state of the world. Fueled by this desire to stand in the presence of strangers every now and then, I made it a priority to drive to downtown Gig Harbor and just walk around, especially on weekends when it was busiest. With a gas mask fitted tightly to my face, rubber gloves, and enough hand sanitizer to supply a small army, I braved the semi-crowded streets of my small, maritime town. While it was helpful to get outside and explore every day, it failed to fill the growing desire in my heart to commune with others. I sensed that pretty much everyone I passed by on the street felt that same emptiness inside. But, that didn't make things any better or easier. Suffering is still suffering, no matter how many people are experiencing a particular type of suffering at once. 

At some point, I think I just went numb. I'm having a hard time recalling my winter in Washington. All I can really recall are the gnawing feelings of emptiness, frustration, and anxiety. While I can't really say how that impacted my faith in the long term, I can safely assume that I was not very pleased with God while I was forced to endure such a harsh, dark winter.

Worse yet, during the first week of January 2021, a rabid mob of hate-filled insurrectionists broke into the US Capitol in a desperate attempt to keep president Cheeto in office for another term. The majority of them claimed to be Christian. They claimed to worship the same God I did, and had bum-rushed the Capitol in His name. 

Needless to say, I was deeply appalled more than anything. Watching the raw footage of the incident plastered all over the internet, I felt seriously sick to my stomach. As I watched the violent mob lay siege on my nation's Capitol, only to be more or less told by the still-sitting president that he loved them and the election was still stolen from them, I swear I could physically feel my heart shattering.

Even my faith in God seemed to be crumbling once again, this time at light speed. After all, the terrorists who attacked our nation's Capitol mostly called themselves Christians. Some of them charged into the building bearing giant wooden crosses and Christian flags. Once gathered on the Senate floor, they prayed. Not to Allah. Not to Buddha. Not to Odin or Zeus. Not to the flying spaghetti monster. But to Yaweh; the God of the Bible. The same God that I prayed to day and night. 

Not only that, but most of my Christian family members were staunch, fervent Trump supporters, and many of them unfortunately fell for the lie that the election was fraudulent. However, to their credit, even the most loyal Trumpists in my family condemned the violence at the Capitol. Still, their condemnation of the attempted coup and "law and order" chants were meaningless, empty words to my ears, especially since they likely still think Trump was literally ordained by God to serve as the 45th president, and millions of votes cast in the 2020 election were illegitimate. 

I couldn't (and still can't) fathom how a deeply devout Christian could support such a man as Trump, or hold to his anti-immigrant, anti-welfare, anti-healthcare, anti-LGTQ+, anti-women policies. I couldn't (and still can't) understand how one can call themselves a Christian and support such damaging, un-Christlike political policies. After all, did Christ not feed the 5,000 with no questions asked, or did He vet everyone who came to get their share to make sure they actually needed it? Did Christ look upon the sick and suffering with disdain and tell them to "just work harder", or did He take care of their needs? Did Jesus not command His followers to "turn the other cheek" and warned that whoever lived by the sword (or gun) would die by it? Did Christ lead a violent revolution against the tyrannous government that crucified Him, or did He arrive in Jerusalem on a donkey as docile as a lamb, and condemn the disciple that sliced the ear off one of His persecutors? 

At least, based on my readings of Scripture in both the Old and New Testaments, the personality of God was vastly contradictory than the bloodthirsty Christian right that rallied around Trump and rammed their way into the US Capitol chanting, "Hang Mike Pence!" Yet, nearly every single Christian in my family, aside from my mother and a few distant relatives, were unwavering supporters of Trump, even after their side's violet assault on the Capitol. They spoke of peace, love, acceptance, life, and mercy from one side of their mouth, and from the other spouted all sorts of fear-mongering lies and nonsense about immigrants, homosexuals, liberals, women's rights, Palestinians, and the pandemic. 

Even the president tweeted several hours after the attack began, "These are the things and events that happen when a sacred landslide election victory is so unceremoniously & viciously stripped away from great patriots who have been badly & unfairly treated for so long. Go home with love & in peace. Remember this day forever!"

I still can't process how a sitting president could say such a thing after such a horrific, violent attack on our nation. 

Despite what I knew about God strictly from Scripture, I wasn't so sure anymore if I wanted to be associated with Him due to the behavior and beliefs of so many of His disciples. Hell, I even took down my American flags for a time, and (as ridiculous as this sounds) pondered moving in with my Canadian siblings and rescinding my citizenship of the USA. My country and my faith were in shambles, and I simply lacked the skills to cope with any of it. I was ashamed to call myself an American. I was ashamed to call myself a Christian. I couldn't even begin to fathom how my God and country began to look so much like 1938 Germany. Even now, I can't figure out where or how so much shit went wrong. It still gives me a headache to think about. 

But, to my astonishment, our elected leaders returned to the Capitol to finish what they were there to do. At least, once Nancy Pelosi and Mike Pence called in the military to get things under control (which Trump failed to do at all). At almost four in the fucking morning after the assault on the Capitol, Congress finalized the presidential election, declaring Biden as the 46th president of the United States of America without an atom of doubt. Trump tried and failed to lie his way into the Oval Office for a second presidential term. His supporters tried and failed to prevent democracy from prevailing, first in the courts, then by force. As harrowing as January 6th, 2021 was for the country, the world, and for many people's spiritual faiths and family relationships (including my own), We the People were victorious yet again. 

America, fuck yeah!

 

 

 

 

 

 

But, quite unexpectedly, there was a glimmer of hope. My doctors called to inform me that I somehow managed to gain early access to the covid-19 vaccine. As someone who was certain I was too young and healthy to get it so soon, I couldn't believe my ears. In fact, I remained in disbelief until I found myself seated in a small room at a grocery store clinic, seconds away from getting my first dose of the Moderna covid vaccine. The injection itself hurt less than the flu shot, and for the first several hours or so after getting the vaccine, I felt perfectly normal. Going to sleep that night with just a barely sore arm, I thought I'd dodged any side effects, and my immune system would create antibodies silently.

At around five or so in the morning, I woke up chilled to the bone despite having several layers of blankets on top of me. My whole body was throbbing in pain, especially the arm where I got the vaccine. I suffered from a blinding migraine that partially obscured my vision. Overall, I felt like a two-hundred pound anvil was tied to my legs after I'd been trampled by a stampede of cattle. 

Somehow, I managed to stumble to my feet and plod downstairs to get some water and a heat pack. Even more miraculously, I managed to climb back upstairs to my bedroom, where I was basically paralyzed for the day. My immune system was doing its job, not nearly as quietly as I hoped it would however. Still, I rejoiced in the pain. I wasn't sick with anything. I was just feeling the wrath of my over-reactive (yet somehow still very much nerfed) immune system. Soon, I could get back to life as it was before the pandemic, without risking ending up in the hospital or the grave. That alone made the vaccine side-effects so, so, so worth it!

The morning after that, I felt almost completely better. The nasty flu-like symptoms I'd suffered from were pretty much gone, aside from some lingering fatigue and achiness. However, nobody but myself could tell I was still feeling a little shitty, for I could finally see the light at the end of the long, grueling tunnel. I had just one more month left, then I could declare that covid-19 was finally in my rear view mirror! Finally, I had an idea of how much longer I had to put up with the bullshit. Finally, I could start plotting my escape from Washington back to my home in Colorado.