Maybe there isn’t a god.

Maybe there is, and He – or She, or It – isn’t as powerful or as loving as they all say.

Maybe there is no explanation for all the terrible things that happen in this world. The mass shootings. The torturing of innocent animals. The murder of innocent children. The natural disasters and terror attacks. Cancer. Unborn babies dying. Being poor and starving, simply because of where or when you’re born in space or time. The unfortunate events that happen to good people. The undeserved blessings bestowed upon bad people.

Maybe it’s not supposed to make sense.

Maybe I should stop going to church.

Maybe I should go more.

Maybe I should go to therapy.

But maybe therapy isn’t for me.

Maybe having a good friend to unload and download with is enough?

Maybe that’s all we need in life: somebody. Somebody to listen, to love, to trust, to rely on, to carry the load when it’s too heavy to carry alone.

Maybe I should make more friends.

Maybe I don’t have many friends because I’m too much, or I’m not enough. Maybe I’m too quiet, too reserved, too guarded, too skeptical, too judgmental, too needy, too dependent, too serious, too tired. Maybe I care too much or try too much. Or maybe I’m not open enough, honest enough, extroverted enough, brave enough, willing enough, strong enough, giving enough, good enough. I’m not the bold, bubbly life of the party that charms everyone. And I’m not the sweet, demure, gentle, generous soul whom everyone can’t help but love.

Maybe that’s why I’m lonely.

Or maybe I’m not lonely anymore and I’ve actually learned to accept the empty social calendar, the days filled with the noise of children and nothing more.

Maybe those days are all I’ve ever really wanted.

Maybe I don’t need anything else in this life.

But maybe I do.

Maybe I want a job, a purpose, another vacation, my favorite meal, time to read more, a reason to keep going when my kids are out of the house, a bird feeder, ocean waves lapping at my feet, cozy mornings by the fire with a coffee, afternoon walks in the neighborhood, romantic evenings, kisses on my forehead…

Maybe the list of things I actually want may never end.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe I’m a restless, grass-is-always-greener kind of soul.

Or maybe I’m just human.

Maybe being human is a gift of its own.

Maybe there isn’t a god.

But maybe there is.

And maybe none of it actually matters at all.