The literary among you may recognize the title of Samuel Beckett’s play of the same name — Waiting for Godot. The wonderfully written play involves two main characters spending their days waiting for someone named Godot, who they believe will provide them with salvation. Except… Godot never arrives.
A miracle would be nice at this point, but so many other people need those miracles so much more.
I think of the babies dying in Africa of malnutrition or the sad state of human trafficking. Millions of babies will never be the same. Some were never rescued. That seems just WAY more important than me. WAY more.
But our souls go back to God, right? They’re a tiny part of the great universe. We live but a blink in time and then, go someplace else to do it over again. Maybe Earth, but then again, maybe not. At least that’s what I believe.
I was raised Roman Catholic. Twelve years in the purgatory that they called “school.” And I feel betrayed. Priests aren’t supposed to mess with little children. The thought sickens me.
And so, I forget my issues, thinking of all the things that are worse in the world. I’m waiting to see a surgeon. The waiting is a sort of purgatory in and of itself, innit?