This Matter of Faith
This Matter of Faith
  • These Matters of Faith
  • The books
    • Book I: This Matter of Faith
    • Book II: Heaven's Avenging Angels
    • Book III: No Evil
  • News
  • Historical Research
    • Fiction by other writers
  • Links
  • Contact
  • These Matters of Faith
  • The books
    • Book I: This Matter of Faith
    • Book II: Heaven's Avenging Angels
    • Book III: No Evil
  • News
  • Historical Research
    • Fiction by other writers
  • Links
  • Contact

News and Views

Strelley's Journal, early 1553.

8/17/2021

0 Comments

 
Once again, I write to you knowing that you will not read these words. I have spent the years thinking of you each day, looking at every face I pass knowing it is not yours but hoping nevertheless. Hoping to share a word with you, to explain, to hear your voice speak to me of times past. And though those times were not happy, save for a few moments of clarity between us, wishing to live their promise, their hope, again. I have travelled the world, searching. Not for you, I know well enough where I could find you. But for a way to navigate the endless days that are without you, without hope of you, and without that part of me that always stays with you wherever you are and wherever I am. I do not wish my life were at an end as I perhaps once did. I do not for a moment think that I should be reunited with you in Heaven. The more I see of the world, the less I think of God, the less I think that He has put us asunder, and the more I think that there is no force for good or evil in the world, just people and their choices. Would I choose differently were I to have the chance? Sometimes, I think not, because then I would not have lived those moments that we shared. Sometimes, I think so, because then you would not have suffered as you did. If God is as the Bible tells us, am I then Job? If it is so, He chose the wrong man. I do not have the faith to say that God is good. If I be wicked, woe unto me; and if I be righteous, yet will I not lift up my head. I am full of confusion; therefore see thou mine affliction; For it increaseth. Thou huntest me as a fierce lion: and again thou shewest thyself marvellous upon me.

He does not listen to my prayers. I have stopped making them.
0 Comments



Leave a Reply.

    Andy Richardson

    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
    I summon up remembrance of things past,
    I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
    And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
    Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,
    For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
    And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
    And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:
    Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
    And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
    The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
    Which I new pay as if not paid before.
    But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
    All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

    Archives

    September 2021
    August 2021
    July 2021
    June 2021
    May 2021
    April 2021
    March 2021
    February 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    June 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    February 2020
    January 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    October 2019
    September 2019
    August 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018

    RSS Feed