Recently, I was asked to share with my faith community. “The sky is the limit,” the pastor said. Here is what came.

(Inspired by the first chapter of Rachel Held Evans’ book Wholehearted Faith.)

On the days when I believe, I stop in amazement to watch the sky turn from bubble gum pink to tangerine as the sun rises above the horizon. The vastness of the ocean reminds me of my smallness and the miracle of my existence, all at once.

On the days when I believe, I pay attention to the in and out of my breath, the beating of my heart, the movement of my body in space as I swim laps. I am filled with deep gratitude for my body and all the places it has carried me, from the top of a mountain to the soft white sands of a beach to the most beautiful cathedrals in the world, and everywhere in between.

On the days when I believe, my heart breaks open as I join my voice with others in the choir to sing music set to poetry like There Will Come Soft Rains by Sarah Teasdale. The bittersweetness of the piece serves as a reminder that life is beautiful and messy and complicated, filled with joy and sorrow and grief.

On the days when I believe, I remember the example of Jesus. His love for all, especially the least, the lost and the marginalized. I remember Holy Saturday, that liminal space that we often live in, where something has died and something has yet to be born. The place between the ending and the beginning, where those who have experienced trauma often dwell.

On the days when I believe, I experience a deep, heart knowing that I was loved into being by a Divine Universal Life Force that cannot be defined or explained or put in a box. I take in the miracle (that I learned only recently from Marcus Buckingham in his book, Love + Work) of the one hundred trillion connections in my brain – more than five thousand Milky Ways – and how that fact alone reveals the true extent of my individuality. There is no one else in the world – there never has been, there never will be again – who has the same pattern of connections as I do. My being here, now, matters. And I am enough. I don’t have to please God or anyone else. I don’t have to fear the wrath or punishment of God for failing to live up to an impossible standard of perfection.

On the days when I believe, the words come easier. I know I can finish the book I’ve been writing for more than 5 years. I’m not too old and it’s not too late and I have something to say that others need to hear.

On the days when I believe, I remember how the yellow pages and a phone call to a church to ask about a group for young adults brought Mike and I together. How I learned later that Mike’s dad weighed only 2 pounds when he was born in the 1930s; the miracle of his life made the miracle of Mike’s life and the miracle of our meeting and marrying almost 25 years ago possible.

On the days when I believe, I have hope for the futures of the nieces and nephews I love so much.

And then there are the other days.

The days when scenes of war from Ukraine – dead and emaciated and injured bodies – fill the news and I recognize my privilege in being able to turn off the radio or the TV and try to forget the horror. The days when I remember there are wars going on in Myanmar, Ethiopia, and Syria, too – often forgotten by the media and others.

The days when women in Afghanistan are fighting for the right to an education and women in America are fighting for the right to control what happens to their own bodies. The days I am reminded how Christianity has been used as a weapon of war and oppression for centuries, harming black, brown, indigenous, female and LGBTQ bodies.

The days when climate change is apparent at every turn – droughts, floods, fires, hurricanes, tornadoes, heat waves – and yet so many turn a blind eye or deny the harm we have done and continue to do to Mother Earth.

The days when a pandemic that has been dragging on for more than 2 years, conspiracy theories, “the big lie,” and fear reveal the worst in humanity and threaten to destroy our democracy.

The days when I feel isolated and alone, angry and helpless, despair for the dumpster fire of the world that we are leaving for the children in our lives. The days when it feels like Depression and her close cousin Anxiety have established a permanent residence, uninvited guests who refuse to leave.

The days when I’m not sure I believe in God.

Wholehearted faith, as Rachel Held Evans describes it, is about loving God and loving your neighbor, even when it doesn’t come easy or you’re not sure. It’s about vulnerability and risk in relationship – even our relationship with the Divine.

On those other days – the many other days when I doubt or question or despair – I wonder what keeps me coming to church. Why do I keep showing up? What’s the point?

The thread I grasp – sometimes with only a fingernail – is a deep longing and hunger to know God. To rest in the Love that surpasses all understanding. To sense, if only for a fleeting moment, the Oneness that is here. To know deep in the marrow of my bones that I am loved and beloved by the Universal Divine Presence that some choose to call God; I am worthy of all that is here, now; I am enough, just as I am.

On the days when I believe, I am able to see the beauty in the midst of the struggle. And sometimes that takes community. When I lose my grasp on the thread, there are others to take hold of it for me. I am grateful that on those other days, when believing is hard, I can fall back into the grace that is here waiting for me here, in this community of faith.

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