the TRUTH? i can't HANDLE the TRUTH...

so, i just finished reading "the thornbirds". excellent book. that's two in a row, that following on the heels of "not wanted on the voyage", another book that anyone capable of feeling pain should read. not for the feeling, but for the beauty of justification, of validation, of recognition that goes somehow beyond understanding and into the realm of hope's creation out of that pain.
but it's all got me thinking a little too much.
both books are replete with characters that have their own realities, their own truths, and they are all so undeniable that it has me questioning, again, what truth is.
one might be so afraid as to think that they must pretend that nothing is wrong. another might be accutely aware of his own shortcomings, but full also of assurance in the reality of his character, to the point where he decides he must simply accept who he is, accept the inevitable. another might be so strong that they determine to shape their life to their own whims and no others, and the inevitable will just have to accept them, instead.
but are any of these truth? are we more truthful, more honest, when we simply accept who we "are", or when we actively decide who we want to be, even if putting that person into practice sometimes feels like pretense, like a charade that we're playing, hoping that we can fool others long enough for it to be real?
the books each also deal with religion, another bone upon which i have been gnawing of late. both speak passionately, if not positively, of religion, but primarily religion as man has invented, shaped, controlled, and used it. it's impossible, after all, to make a case against God. but a case against man, against his loose constructs of faith? all too easy, and often more perceptive than we're prepared for.
i want faith, i truly do. i had it, once, and it's current absense makes me sadder than i can understand, even though i am otherwise less sad than i have been in a long, long time.
but i used to be able to stand in church, worship, stretch my hand out, and feel God's hand taking mine in his, feel the security, the love extended. now i try to sing and it feels like i'm doing it for them, it feels phony because i don't believe in the church anymore. it's like i'm driving to rome, and the destination remains the same, but i can't honestly believe i'm going because i don't believe in the vehicle anymore. it's wheels are flat, it has no gas, and i hate it's shape, it's uncomfortable contours, it's ugly color that reminds me so much of anything but God, anything but hope.
i'm not saying i don't share my own share of the blame... as the distance remains, it becomes easier to rely on other things to fill that gap, regardless of their inability to suffice, to last, to make me feel as complete. i fail as much as anyone... but now, i feel i have few, if any, true places to express my sorrow over it, to receive forgiveness.
i love the concept of confession as it remains in the catholic church. if it wern't for that whole "praying to mary" thing, i'd probably find catholocism a fine religion. but i'm not really looking for a religion right now... i'm just looking for my friend, God, because i miss Him.
and maybe He would be able to shed some light on this whole truth business, as well, it's another of the things i appreciate about Him, He's so insightful sometimes. probably comes with knowing absolutely everything. but if He does, then he must know how i feel, how this absense hurts.
i hope He knows, at least.

for now, what tears i shed, i still shed for characters in books. i love it, it makes me feel vital, and alive, and like i'm a part of the earth because some fragment of it seems to understand me, and let me understand it in return.
but sometime, soon, i must shed tears for myself, for others, for God, in honesty and in truth, and perhaps then things will feel more real, and the world will again be mine.
i hate the struggle, but i still believe i can love the result.

and that, at least, is hope.