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Of faith and trash …

Once you’ve been denied the dignity of sleep, it takes some degree of faith to trudge outward and onward in the darkness.

Faith on such mornings takes several forms; faith that there won’t be as much junk to pick up, faith that slobs will right their wrong ways, faith that our world will become cleaner and environmentally sensitive. (Good thing I don’t hold my breath for those to become true. My respiratory powers aren’t that lasting.)

I wrestle, too, with larger issues of faith in the traditional sense. My silent, one-sided conversations with the Almighty on my walks tend to dwell on why do we do this to ourselves? or how is it that we defile your good earth? My epithets/curses likely only serve to add to the ever-growing pile of stuff that will require forgiveness from the higher source.

I’m in no position to request His agreement to a partial swap of faith for cleanliness or love or security or world piece. The best I’ve got is the inherent belief that these beautiful mornings are indeed that simple act of faith that says this is a good and just cause.

I hope He understands. If not, my articles of faith will remain internalized and localized on my path.

About Dave Bradley (264 Articles)
I was a writer by trade so one would think letters would come easily for me. It is so now, but wasn't always that way. Indeed, the first letter was written the Monday after Ellen started her freshman year in college. For years I've wondered - with no good answers - why I swiveled my office chair toward my computer screen to fire up a word processing document for that first letter. I just don't know. I just did. Perhaps it was the angst of separation or wanting to say things that had gone unsaid at that moment when we parted ways in front of her college dormitory. What was a one-off became habitual. When her brother Reid enrolled in the same college, his name was added to the salutation line. They were kids then and are adults now. No matter. The letter writing habit remains so today. I live in Brevard, North Carolina. I'm well away from where they live and don't see them nearly as often as I'd like. That's why letters, at least to me, fill the void of distance. The pages give me something to say and the space to say it. There is no assurance they read the letters; indeed, I have never asked if they do so. With the pace of their busy lives who could blame them for letting a letter sit unopened? Over time, it has dawned on me that the letters are both communicative - and cathartic. By nature, letters are about the writer; the writer can only write about their situation. Perhaps that is as it should be. It's all about the here and now from one person's perspective.

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