Becoming An Atheist: The Problem of Evil

My first real doubts about the existence of god came around the same time frame of our first IVF, though the two were not related. I had recently left the first school I had ever taught at, and was teaching at a magnet school for sixth-eighth graders. We taught in "streams" -- six week courses designed to incorporate all subjects around a bigger theme. My first stream was Conflict, and it featured an in-depth look at WWII.

I had read about the Holocaust before, of course. I had studied it in middle school and high school myself. I read Anne Frank and numerous other books written by survivors. I had taught the book "The Devil's Arith.metic" by Jan.e Yo.len for several years in my reading classes (it is a fantastic example of historical fiction). The Holocaust has always fascinated me, in a somber, heartbreaking way. It was such a terrible, dark, part of human history, and my empathetic nature can't help but put myself in the shoes of the women and children who endured horrors I can hardly imagine.

As part of this particular unit, I chose to read aloud to the students from El.ie Wei.sel's memoir, "Night," a little each day. I had read the book before, of course, and I remember that I was moved by it. But -- something different in me responded this time. There was a particular passage I remember reading to my eighth graders. The room was silent, and my voice broke as I described, secondhand, what Elie witnessed: Nazi soldiers throwing infants into the air and shooting them in front of their mothers who had just finished digging their own graves.

(I will pause for a minute and let you go back and re-read that last sentence. Sit with it for a moment. Let the image sink in.)

We couldn't even discuss our reading that day. I closed the book after finishing that page, and we all just kind of looked at each other for a few minutes until it was time to dismiss. Nobody twittered or fidgeted or tapped their pencils. The air was thick with emotion, and we just sat in the stillness for a moment, afraid to break the spell. I still don't know what was going on in the minds of my students that day -- but I know what was going on in mine.

At that moment, it became impossible for me to reconcile what I had been taught about God and what had unfolded throughout history. How any omniscient, omnipotent, and omnibenevolent being could allow something like that to happen (and other, far more gruesome things that we never touched on in class), became impossible for me to understand. (It was several years later that I became aware of Epicurus' famous quote, but it certainly hit home for me that day).

I had been told that humans could not understand God's motives, and that his plan made sense on some grander scale that we could not fathom. But at that moment, I began to wonder. What possible reason or plan was God fulfilling? How was he powerless to prevent such evil? I understand that Christians believe that god gave us "free will" and they use that to explain why evil seems to flourish -- but, really? God, had he any power at all, could have prevented the suffering of millions by simply not creating one being in the first place. And, being all-knowing, he knows this. But he does it any way (assuming that God is the creator and giver of life.) How is this benevolence? How is this showing love and mercy? How does the slaughter of millions further God's plans?

I didn't stop believing in God that day, but the very first cracks in my faith began to appear. And the more I thought about the Holocaust in particular, and evil in general, the more I began to doubt in a hands-on, interventionist deity. After all, people around me were praying to pass tests and find their car keys -- and claiming that God answered those prayers -- while he remained silent at the pleas of those suffering more than you or I will ever know.

Though many atheists are themselves portrayed as evil, I would venture to say that for most atheists, evil itself is a reason supporting their very atheism. We are not evil because we reject the notion of a deity -- rather, the presence of evil concerns us so much that it has caused us to spend a great deal of thought trying to reconcile the problems we see every day around us with the notion of a loving god.

And, unfortunately, the answers we've been given do not pass the test. Theists love to give God credit for the good things, and are quick to blame humanity for the bad. Logically, though, the arguments break down -- either God is in control,or he is not. If he is, then he is allowing and/or causing some terrible shit to happen, on a global scale, every single day. If he's not in charge, then he's not God.

You can't have it both ways, though I know that some theists try. (I will tackle the hands-off Creator God in another post). Either way, both theists and non-theists must acknowledge that evil exists (or, to put it another way, bad things happen). The question becomes, whose fault is it?

There are, of course a variety of provable causes: nature, disease, other human beings. But God? How does he fit in? Is he the causer of evil, or the bystander?

According to both the Old and the New Testaments, God is not only capable of intervening, but he has done so throughout history. Why then did he choose this particular point of human suffering, on such a grandiose scale, to disappear? Where was he during the Holocaust? Where is he today?

I'm afraid that the answer is that he is where he always has been -- locked inside our own minds. Neither the perpetrator nor the bystander -- just simply a comforting figment of our own imaginations.

Becoming An Atheist: A Little Background

I was born into a "mixed" marriage of sorts -- my mother was a Methodist PK (that's preacher's kid, for those of you not hip to the slang), and my father had grown up LDS (more commonly known as Mormon), though he had rejected the faith. In 31 years, I still don't know why -- we've never discussed it. I just knew that my mom was a Christian, and my dad was not.

We didn't go to church often growing up -- sometimes, depending on where we were living, we want to a local Methodist church. I remember going to see my grandfather preach when we went to visit them. But mostly I grew up believing in God, but without much religion or ritual behind it.

When I was 14, we moved to SLC. And, if you have ever lived there, you can imagine what it was like for a non-LDS girl. I wasn't ostracized by any means -- but I also was not well-versed enough to fend off the attempts to convert me. And there were many! All of my friends invited me to church, which my mother vehemently objected to. Maybe because I was 14 and needed to rebel against my parents, or, maybe because I was 14 and wanted to fit in with my peers, or maybe because I was 14 and in love for the first time with an LDS boy -- but I found myself very drawn to the LDS community. I took it upon myself to read the bible from cover to cover (a feat I have accomplished several times since), and to read the Book of Mormon as well. My friends seemed to have reasonable answers to my not-very-deep questions, and I was never allowed to visit their churches and discuss the religion with adults. My mother never told me why she was so against it, she just was. I became convinced that, once I turned 18, I would convert and marry my LDS boyfriend and have a passel of children.

Instead, when I was just shy of 16, we moved to Podunk. Where, instead of being surrounded by the LDS and their very strong sense of community, I was an oddball. We didn't attend any of the mega-churches, and I wasn't a part of their youth groups. I clung to my version of Mormonism (which was by no stretch of imagination a very accurate version) for a while, but eventually teenage normalcy begged and I identified only as "Christian." I still read the bible, and I missed the community I had found in SLC. I searched for that for many years. When I was 18, I joined a local Methodist church. It was familiar, and it embraced all people. Even then, in my conservatism, I had doubts that any one religion was spot-on. I did believe some were more accurate than others, but had a very difficult time embracing the idea that people who hadn't heard about Jesus, or who were born and raised in a different culture, were going to hell simply because of an accident of birth.

I joined several small groups at that church, and continued to attend throughout my two years of college there. (I go back and re-read some of my college papers from back then, littered with conservative ideologies, and can't help but laugh. How self-righteous I sounded, and how much my liberal-arts professors must have hated me! :-) )

When I was almost 20, I moved Down South (even further south than Podunk). I finished college, met Mo. Got married and started teaching. We didn't attend church, though both of us wanted to raise our children in church. I was of the mindset that church attendance wasn't necessary for a relationship with God. After several years, and lots of struggles personally, Mo broke down one afternoon and said he wanted to call his childhood preacher. We did, and the next Sunday went to his small church. He had left the Assembly of God church that Mo had been baptized in several years earlier and started his own, non-denominational church that preached prosperity -- you know, God wants you to be rich, etc. They embraced us immediately, and I felt a sense of belonging that had been missing since we left SLC. We did things with their family every weekend, attended church together every Sunday. When Mo's dad died, Mo disappeared (metaphorically, at least). I won't rehash that time period, but it was the most difficult we have ever endured. I begged them for help, but they didn't know what to do. They tried, they prayed. It did no good. I stopped attending. I miscarried. They were nowhere to be found.

When we moved back to Podunk, my faith was shattered. I had prayed for years for a different outcome, to no avail. I had prayed, not for myself, but for another, and it did no good. I knew that God wasn't listening, if he was even there at all.

It took several more years, and an atheist friend, to help me become aware of my actual beliefs. To separate what I had been taught from my actual experience. To look for evidence, and find it lacking.

There will be some readers who want to blame my atheism on my bad experiences, to say that I am angry with God. I am not, because I do not believe that any gods exist. I am angry with the situation I am in, yes. That is real. For me, god is about as real as Santa Claus, and I feel just about as much anger toward him as I do that jolly elf.

What I hope that readers get from this over-simplified explanation of my religious background is this: I have spent quite a lot of time thinking about god. I have prayed daily for years. I have read the bible, in depth, multiple times. I have examined other spiritual texts. I do not take atheism lightly -- it is not a default position, nor one based on rebellion or anger. It is the logical conclusion that I have come to after examining closely my own life experiences, those of the family and friends that surround me, and even those in far-away continents that I will never meet.

For me, religion (specifically Christianity) was the default position, an accident of birth, if you will. It is cultural and geographical and, for the majority of participants, as easy as breathing.

It is only when it became impossible to breathe that I had to examine it closer.

What I found shattered my illusions, but has ultimately brought me peace.

I Am Angry

That may not come as a shocker to most of you, but it about sums things up pretty well right now.

I am angry at much of the world -- everyone who has ever had babies, easily or otherwise, or who will in the future have babies, with or without huge costs to their marriage, their sanity, and their self-esteem.

I am angry at infertility -- that faceless entity that has stolen so much from me.

I am angry at my husband, and his inability to accept the reality of our situation. (He actually wanted to talk tonight about using his sperm and a known donor egg if this next IVF doesn't work -- because, even though that's way more expensive than d-iui, and there are no known egg quality issues, this can't be " all his fault." *)

I am angry at the System, and the bureaucracy, and all the red tape. I am angry that adoption has become a for-profit business that is trumpeted as the answer to all of our problems by people who will never have to consider all of the sacrifices we will be making if we ever do choose to walk down that road.

I am angry that, at 31 years old, I have spent a decade chasing the unattainable. I am angry that I may have "wasted" my most fertile years waiting for an opportunity that has already slipped out of my fingers.

I am angry that I have spent so very much of my soul on this process -- and still have nothing but emotional scars and a broken heart to show for it.

I am angry because I am grieving. I get that.

I am grieving the loss of the life I planned, and will never have. I am grieving the loss of the babies I created and carried and will never hold. I am grieving for my marriage, which has been battered and broken and patched up again too many times to count.

I am grieving for the person that I was, and will never be again.

No matter how this ends, the girl I was is gone. There is no way to escape that fact. I am forever, irreversibly, damaged. There has been too much pain, too much sorrow, too much bitterness and regret.

Sometimes it feels overwhelming, impossible to bear. And yet, somehow, I bear it. I wish I could say I bear it gracefully, but I do not. I bear it, but with a deep and unforgiving anger that bubbles just beneath the surface. I do not hide it well.

Some people are beautiful on the outside. Others are beautiful on the inside.

I am neither. **

Beneath my very average face, and all my extra-padding, is a heart that is twisted -- black and gnarly and wholly repulsive.

So, yeah.

I am angry.

Angry.

And broken.

And sad.





* I have never, ever, said that any of this is his fault, just for the record. Our diagnosis is male-factor infertility and recurrent miscarriage. There are many things at play here, some of which we understand and others we don't. I absolutely do not blame Mo -- but, if we are looking for solutions, we need to look at the things that we DO know are contributing to our inability to get/stay pregnant, don't you think?

** Yes, yes, I know. Learning to love myself, accept my flaws, blah, blah, blah. Some days I can manage that. Today? Utter failure.

I Would Be Good At That

I had the chance to babysit my nieces this weekend. Baby A. has grown up so much, it just boggles the mind. She will be four soon -- FOUR!!!! How is that even possible?!?

Baby C. is a chubby, sweet, gurgling bundle of joy who already, at 9 weeks old, looks so much bigger than she did just two months ago.

(Side note -- I also have a nephew, Baby B., which gives me this perverse desire to name my child, should they ever arrive, something beginning with a D. Weird, no?)

Mo and I tag-teamed this time, since Baby C. is still in that "please don't ever put me down" phase. We traded off holding the infant with playing with her big sister. We fed them both. He showed A. how to peel a crawfish, and sang C. to sleep.

And at the end of the night, as I rocked Baby C. in the darkened nursery and listened to Mo and A. giggle in the living room, I thought, We would be so good at this.

Because, you know, I wonder sometimes.

Even though my rational brain knows otherwise, I find myself doubting that on occasion. You know, those times when I forget to feed the dogs until late afternoon, or when I come home tired and grumpy and incredibly happy that I don't have to tend to anyone's needs but my own.

It's then that I think, Maybe I would be a terrible mother. And maybe, somehow, the universe knows this. And maybe that's why I can't have babies.

I begin the litany of list-making, my brain rattling off the myriad mistakes I have made in the past. I was rotten to my little sister when we were children (I even locked her outside once. In January. In the snow). I have snapped at kids at school, on numerous occasions over the years. I have said mean things to my spouse, things I didn't mean and things I did, and things I can never, ever take back. I am stubborn. I am impatient. I am grouchy when I am tired, and Lord help you if my blood sugar drops too low.

Sometimes, when I let my emotions get the better of me, I think that these things are the root cause of my infertility.

But, I know better. My feelings are real, but they don't reflect reality.

In reality, I would be an excellent mother.

In reality, I would make mistakes, we all do. But I would love my children with a fiery passion. I would put them first, every single day. Tired or not, we would read books every evening. I would cook them their favorite foods. I would say "no" when I had to, but I would try as often as I could to say "yes." I would ask questions, and really listen to their responses. We would explore. I would smother them with hugs and kisses and never let them doubt for a single second how very, very much they were wanted.

I have to remind myself of these facts every so often.

I am NOT being punished for some childhood transgression or some imaginary sin.

I am NOT being tested, and found lacking, by some omniscient being whose standards of conduct are impossible to achieve.

I married a man who produces wonky sperm.

That's it.

And I am incredibly grateful for the scientific advances that give us lots of options for how we deal with that.

Because, in the end, I would be a wonderful mother. I only hope that, someday, I get the chance to prove that, if only to myself.

Double-Stuffed

Infertility and its cousins, Lack of Exercise and Emotional Eating, have all been very helpful over the last few years in packing on the pounds. I have gained about ten pounds each cycle, or 40 pounds in all. I have had a devil of a time taking it off, despite yo-yo dieting and basically making myself miserable with deprivation followed by the inevitable binge.

In the last year or so, I have been trying hard to become more comfortable in my (softer?) skin. I have given up dieting and instead eat what I please. I do try to keep my portions sensible, and I have found that in so doing, my cravings for sweets and other "forbidden" foods has dramatically decreased. I've not lost any weight, but I am striving to learn to love my body, or at least accept it, for the many things it DOES do for me. I have spent a decade hating it for what it won't do, and I have had enough. I have embraced fashion and am learning how to dress my current shape so that I feel (and look) my best, rather than wearing ill-fitting and unattractive clothing.

I tell you all of that so that you have sufficient background to appreciate the little exchange between Mo and I last night. I had purchased a bag of Oreos at the store this weekend on impulse. Over the course of the weekend, I ate several. (Ok, a whole row). Mo and I pulled them out while making dinner last night, and as we nibbled I said, "You know, I'm probably the only person on the planet who doesn't like regular Oreos. I sure do like the double-stuffed ones, though." "Mmmmmm, me, too," he mumbled.

After a beat, I said, "After all, why would you pick a skinny, flat, Oreo when you could have all that extra filling?" as I did a little ( or, not so little)) booty-shake.

Mo grinned. "Oh, definitely," he replied. "I'd choose double-stuffed every time." He grabbed my butt and we both died laughing.

It's a small thing, but the shift from derogatory comments about my body to embracing its curves has been a several-years-long work in progress. I teach 10-12 year old girls, many of whom are already indoctrinated into our societal stereotypes and already engage in fat-talk. I have become very aware of women's tendencies to downplay our figures and to speak badly about our bodies. As an infertile, I think it becomes magnified as we (quite normally) focus on what is wrong versus what is right with our bodies.

I am trying to change that. I am trying to see my body as the faithful friend it has been, allowing me the freedoms to walk, run, play, teach, shop, and even roll around in the sheets with my husband every once in a while. My ample curves give my nieces and my dogs soft places to rest their heads. My arms embrace my husband, my mom, and my students and let them know how much they are loved. My legs carry me to all kinds of places, allowing me to explore beaches and mountains with ease.

The thing is, my body is amazing. And so is yours. You might be a "plain" Oreo -- and that's okay. I am double-stuffed -- and that's okay, too. In fact, not only is it okay, but I can actually say in all seriousness, that I am beautiful this way. As my husband told me before we went to sleep last night -- Oreos are delicious, no matter what shape or size they come in.

So, today, I hope you have that cookie (or cupcake, or whatever you fancy), and know -- really know-- that its okay. You are beautiful, extra filling and all.

Becoming An Atheist: An Introduction to "Losing" My Faith

First off, let me say thank you! Thank you for your thoughtful responses to my last post, and thank you for staying civil and polite even when you disagreed with me. That's not as common as you might think -- just read the comment section of any political or religious or even mainstream infertility news article (the ALI blogosphere excluded, of course).

Most of the thoughts swirling in my brain these days have to do with religion. I was once a Christian, but have, over the past several years, slowly evolved into an atheist. There wasn't a single moment in time where I "lost" my faith -- it just happened, and over time I became more and more comfortable saying "This is what I believe." Or, rather, this is what I do NOT believe.

Atheism is, in our American culture, still a bad word. The majority of Americans identify as religious, though growth of the "nones" is growing (interestingly enough, mostly in my demographic).

Atheists are frequently demonized in our society, painted as uncaring, unfeeling, immoral, and worse.

When I began having doubts about God, I turned to the same source that provided comfort when I realized we were infertile: the good 'ol internets. And I found, once again, that I am not alone. That, just like with infertiles, atheists come in all shapes and sizes, from a myriad of backgrounds.

Since treatments and infertility have taken a backseat for the foreseeable future, I figured that if I was going to reclaim my blogging mojo (haha!), I should write about what's on my mind. And atheism is a good chunk of that. So, perhaps once a week, perhaps more, I will write up the bits and pieces of my life that have to do with moving away from faith, and becoming comfortable identifying as an atheist.

I hope that in writing this series I can find a way to put into words the thousands of complex emotions that I have had on this journey. I hope that it will help me learn how to explain what I think and why. And I also hope that maybe it will provide some comfort to someone else who is struggling the way that I did.

Infertility bloggers and blogging saved my sanity over the past several years. While that is still far from resolved, there are other things that have been granted more "head space" in the past year or so. And so I am setting out to prove what hundreds of others do every single day: that you can be good without god.

I hope you will join me, and I look forward to hearing your responses and thoughts on these matters as well.






Disclaimer: The views I post here are strictly my own, and I welcome CIVIL discourse, sincere questions, and respectful disagreements. I will NOT tolerate hate speech of any kind, so please moderate your comments, so that I don't have to. :-)

God: Like Santa Claus, But With Babies

I am an atheist.

I am also infertile.

My atheism did not cause my infertility -- in fact, throughout most of the last decade, I was a conservative (though not evangelical) Christian. I prayed daily, went to church regularly, read my bible every morning. I was never "rebellious," or looking for a way "out" of church. I was, and always have been, a "good" girl. Hell, I married the second guy I ever slept with (and was, briefly, engaged to the first). I don't smoke, drink rarely, don't do drugs. I was (and still am) extremely boring. I love kids, and I work with some of the most challenging every day.

And yet, when people hear I am infertile, the first thing they say is that they will pray for me. And that everything happens according to God's plan.

When I tell them I am not religious, they give me the look. The "Aha. I understand" look. As though, somehow, my lack of children is directly tied to my lack of faith. As though if I somehow prayed harder, or believed more, or trusted in "his timing," I would have the babies I so desperately desire.

And yet, can anyone seriously look around at our society today and tell me that God has been handing out babies only to his faithful? He isn't fucking Santa Claus. You don't get a baby because you are good, because you say the right things, or because you pray fervently. If any of that worked, I (and many of you) wouldn't be here, railing at the universe for our lack of fertility.

Even before I abandoned any notion of a higher power, I became convinced that God had nothing to do with babies. Who got them had little to do with who wanted them, and even less to do with who "deserved" them. And yet, it is impossible to miss the snide undertones of my fertile Christian friends and colleagues who seem to think that they are somehow superior because of their belief in God. And of course, their children are proof positive of this. They wanted babies, they prayed, and they got them. Even if a few struggled along the way, their faith and trust in God got them through -- and had I just been more patient, more faithful, I would have, too.

I hate them for that.

And yet, at the same time, I envy them their solid convictions, their ability to trust in the universe and some "plan" for their lives.

I know, more than anyone else ever could, that faith was never my problem. I know that I believed more fervently than most for a very, very, long time. I prayed with every fiber of my being -- not just for a baby, but for the health of my husband and of my marriage.

And, eventually, for the life of my unborn babies. Once. Twice. Three times.

Those prayers were never answered.

I have, over time, and after a great deal of thought and research, come to the conclusion that the chances of there being anyone out there "directing traffic" so to speak are very, very slim. It is impossible to prove a negative, so I will never say for sure that God doesn't exist (it's just very, very, unlikely.)

But I DO know this: I am an atheist, and I am infertile. And one of those things has nothing to do with the other.

Eleven and Three

Two numbers that have been rattling in my brain, impossible to believe, but true. Eleven years since we tossed the birth control, three years since my earth-shattering first post-IVF loss. And still, no babies to show for it. How is that even possible? How am I still in this race? How have I not given up already?

I don't really know, other than I just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Isn't that how everyone deals with those life-altering blows that we are dealt? You just keep getting up, you keep breathing. In my case, I keep having sex (FUN!) and keep letting everyone under the sun stick instruments up my hoo-ha (not nearly as much fun as it sounds).

We really don't have anything new to report, hence my blog absence of late. Christmas was both wonderful and awful, as I am sure so many of you can relate. My family is amazing, and we got to spend lots of time together, time that I cherish and feel so lucky to have. I can't help but appreciate my parents and siblings so much more, seeing Mo without his each year. Each Christmas my wish for the next year remains the same, though realistically I know I won't be holding a baby of my own in December 2013, either. Maybe by 2014?

I miss blogging, and writing, and the connections I've made here. At the same time, there is only so much of this community that I can handle right now. (God, that sounds horrible and selfish and I am sorry.) It's true, though, and out of self-preservation I steer clear of all but a few select places these days. I want to be better, but let's face it -- I'm not. After over a decade of infertility, I'm ready for it to be my fucking turn already. I love you all, really I do, but I am no saint. And if you get that, then you are a better person than I was when I was in your shoes, and I am lucky to have you. If that pisses you off or offends you in some way, then I invite you to trade places with me any day. What? No takers? :-)

I may or may not be blogging about other things here for a while, seeing as how there will be no treatments to obsess over until May/June. I am in cyber-love with Misfit (http://justbeinginfertile.blogspot.com)*, have thoroughly enjoyed reading about her house renovations lately. While I am not nearly as handy, nor do I own a home to refinish, I do enjoy seeing other sides of my infertile buddies (What? We are more than just our broken lady-parts?), and think sometimes that you might like to see the other sides of me as well. Then again, my other sides may be horribly offensive to some of you, or so the little corner of my brain insists, and so I hold off, wanting to keep the few of you I haven't run off previously. And so I keep quiet, reinforcing the belief that I am little more than a baby-hungry, stubborn, doesn't-know-when-to-quit, bag of broken lady-bits.

I am more, though, or so I like to think.

So, you tell me. If you have hung around this long, what do you want to know about me? Comment and give me some good, non-IF blog fodder. Please and thank you. (See, I haven't completely forgotten my good manners!)


*Can anyone tell my how to create a link on the Blogger iPad app? I am technology literate most of the time, but this one has me stumped.

Standing Still

When I first started writing this post, I titled it "At a Standstill." Because that's where we are, treatment-wise and adoption-wise. Waiting for appointments and paperwork, neither moving forward nor backward.

But, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn't like the feeling that word invokes -- "standstill." It sounds stuck, mired in the mud that often accompanies each step on this journey.

And for some reason, I don't feel stuck right now. It's true that we are standing still, but at a standstill? No.

And the more I meditated on that slight difference in vocabulary, the more I was able to see how my perspective is changing. How I am changing, evolving, as this journey unfolds. There is a peace where there once was panic. Right now, weeks seem to matter less, and the overall picture matters more.
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Some people might consider it nitpicky, this obsession and focus on words. And yet, words are so powerful. They change thoughts, and feelings, set moods, and destroy relationships. Words are important, and so it's important to me that I choose the right words when writing about infertility, or marriage, or whatever the hell it is I'm writing about.
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We are standing still for the moment, catching our breaths, gathering strength for the next battle that is sure to follow. I marvel sometimes that we ARE still standing, that infertility and loss have not completely destroyed us both. It most certainly could have, and in fact almost did. It still could, as this challenge is far from over. But for now, we are still in this together, still hoping for our happy ending, still dreaming of a future that involves children.

How exactly we are going to make that happen is still being talked about, thought about, swirled around in our respective brains and sitting with us, trying to feel out which path feels most right. We are not making any decisions for now.

We are standing still, friends, and for once in my life, I am okay with that.

Because what really matters is that we are, still, standing.

What I Believe In

The emphasis here is on the "I" -- while many assumptions are made about "what atheists believe," the truth of the matter is that the only thing we have in common is a lack of belief in a deity. I could go on for days about what I personally don't believe in, but what would that do except serve to alienate people who do believe? The only way for us to find common ground (and therefore mutually-beneficial solutions to societal problems) is to focus on the values we share. And so here you have it, a list of what I, Jo, believe in:

* I believe in gender equality. I think that the reproductive organs you are born with should have no bearing on the education you receive, the jobs you are qualified for, or the services that are available to you.

* I believe that who you have sex with, and how, (provided it is between consenting adults) is no one's business but your own.

* I believe that, likewise, your body belongs to YOU and only you should govern what happens to it (this encompasses a whole slew of things from tattoos and piercings, to the right to decide when and how many children to have, to the right to die with dignity).

* I believe in families, be they formed by birth, by circumstance, or by choice. I believe in loving adults being allowed to raise children, no matter their sexual preferences or marital status. And it should come as no surprise that I believe that the ability to create a family should not have to be influenced by economic factors -- adoption should be made affordable to all, and ART should be covered by insurance.

* I believe that all humans should have access to healthy foods, clean water, and affordable health care. And yes, I would consider health care as essential as food and water.

* I believe that this is the only life we have. I believe that, whenever possible, we should pursue our dreams now, and rectify our regrets, because we will not have the chance to do so later.

* I believe in honesty, forgiveness, and compassion. I believe that people should be encouraged to be who they are, without shame. I believe that everyone makes mistakes, and that second (third, even fourth) chances are sometimes necessary. And I believe that even if you haven't experienced something for yourself, you are capable of providing a listening ear, a hand to hold, or a warm embrace.

* I believe that everyone is shaped by their life experiences, and that our behaviors and choices reflect that. I believe that (for the most part) I cannot judge you for your decisions, because I may have made the same ones if I were you.**

* I believe in kindness. I believe that a smile, polite words, and small gestures can smooth this bumpy road immensely and make it a little but easier for us all.

* I believe in helping others, and standing up for them. To quote one of my favorite people, Dr. Seuss: " A person is a person, no matter how small," (or whatever their race, religion, gender, economic situation, marital status, favorite pastime, etc.)

In short, my lack of belief in the supernatural in no way means I lack values, or morals, or a sense of humanity. In fact, in many ways, I think it has made me MORE sensitive to the plight of others. Now that I understand that people (myself included) are not being guided or led by an all-knowing outside force, I can see how much of a person's circumstances is due to pure luck, or of birth, or of geography. There is value in all cultures, all people, and no one outside of the human race is going to step in and magically make things better.

If we want a better world, a better future, we are going to have to stand up and create it ourselves.






** Necessary exclusions being of course murder and rape, etc. I doubt that I would make those choices even in the most dire circumstances.