I'm antsy. I think it's the snow.
But more notable than my physical jitteriness or caffeinated chemical makeup or even my uncharacteristically anxious demeanor, I have been dwelling on a memory.
I remember the very first time God let me down.
I was standing on a dock and trying to walk on water. I'd read the stories about how you held up Peter for awhile or how you walked yourself. When Peter finally fell, you told him it was because he had little faith. Little, as in miniscule, tiny, microscopic, bantam. Or was it little, as in casual, insignificant, paltry. Or little, as in young, because Lord knows my faith was young, as it still is.
So I squeezed my tiny eyes shut and clenched my muscles, because it seemed that made it look like you were thinking hard, and I thought so hard I thought the blood vessels in my head would have had enough, and given up altogether. I'm not sure why I thought faith happened in my mind or was contingent with my thinking capacity, but it was.
"Mustard seed, mustard seed, mustard seed," I thought. Little faith like a mustard seed? Was Peter's significantly littler? I hadn't had time to peruse these thoughts and sort through which ones I would later throw out as absurdly irrational.
And try as I might, I stepped off that dock only to break through the surface tension. You see, its Newtonian physics that explain how molecule cohesion is broken with a sufficient force per unit length. And my faith just wasn't strong enough. Or God wasn't there.
Or God was and God just decided not to do much about it. And I hold little blame, now that I realize that I never really knew what God was or what faith was or how to acquire it.
But I still remember that sense of hopelessness when I fell off the dock that day.