I HAVE faith. That's what you must understand. I possess it. Yes, in a way, it possesses me. But at the same time,
it is mine. In the same way as a lung, or a foot, or an ear. In the same way, I have life, I have faith.
Oh, I struggle. As some with failing sight struggle to see, to focus again; in the same way, sometimes my faith
weakens, becomes indistinct. Not that faith is imperfect. But I am. Oh yes, I am.
Still, my faith remains mine, in weakness, in doubt, no less mine than any physical attribute or quality I have.
Even more so.
You probe with your questions, you try â€“ not very hard â€“ to hide your pity, your sense that I am not quite
right â€“ as if this was a wig you could pull from me, as if it was a bubble you could prick.
And I welcome your probing, I welcome your assurance that I am blind, that I am lost. As a beach welcomes
the water. As the water welcomes the wind. Because your doubt is like a light on my conviction. Because it
reminds me that what you want to chase away, this thing you want to cure me of, like a shadow across my
vision, is bound with me like my blood. You can have it â€“ I'd share it with you gladly â€“ but you can never
take it from me.