I've not been into the whole faith-thing lately. It's hard to be denied the one thing you want more than anything. It's hard to watch your child die after you've begged and pleaded for his life. It's hard to keep believing after losing such an intense battle with evil. It's hard to cope with well-meaning people who try to help by repeating platitudes. It's all just, well, hard. So I guess there's little point in dwelling.
But every now and then, I can feel the sunlight on my face again. I feel like maybe I could have real, iron-clad faith again. Some day.
In addition to the omnipresent Corvettes last weekend, I had a few interesting moments that touched a nerve. The first came in New Smyrna Beach as Abby and I were checking into our oceanfront condo Saturday afternoon. As I stood filling out an information card, a blonde woman entered the office. She stepped up to the desk next to me, and gave her last name to the clerk. It was Logan. I did a triple take, and asked if she'd said Logan. She said yes, and asked if it was my name too. I said no, and pointed to the bake sale poster on the wall behind her as I explained that the poster child was my son.
But sometimes it takes multiple hints to get through to someone as stubborn as me. Just yesterday, as Abby and I were standing in the security line at the airport in Orlando, the woman behind us put her boarding pass on the desk in front of the official. The edge of her wallet concealed all but one important piece of information, her last name. Which happened to be... Logan.
Once again, I did a triple take.
I know that the name Logan is a relatively common surname, but to have direct interactions with two folks in such short succession seemed statistically unlikely at best. More like flat-out amazing.
And it got me thinking about God all over again, and about how Logan must surely be wherever Heaven is. I don't know if he can see me or hear me or if he even knows who I am anymore. But he must be there.