A Childlike Faith

I want her to know something I don’t. I want her to know someone I don’t know.

"Those who say that having childlike faith means not asking questions haven't met too many children." - Rachel Held Evans

I used to think God looked like the Fairy Godmother in Disney’s animated version of Cinderella. Yes, the movie with the evil cat Lucifer, a ball, pumpkin carriage, and endearing mice Jack-Jack and Gus-Gus. It is one of my earliest memories. I can’t tell you why I thought God looked like the fairy Godmother. But I remember nights in the early 1990s, laying in my white twin bed beneath the window of my childhood home, red teddy bear border marching around the ceiling, and pulling my covers to my chin, praying first in my head and then aloud, “Dear Heavenly Father,” I’d pause. “Dear Lord…” is this how it goes? Does He hear me in my head or when I say it out loud?

I’d talk while envisioning a twirling Grandmother with a wand, tufts of white hair, and a big pink bow drawing up her blue cape. I know I was confused both in the vision of God but also in prayer. I think I saw a magic wand and thought, well, if God is the being with miracles at His fingertips but also lightning to smite me, then with enough goodness and enough time to speak up into the dark abyss of my bedroom, maybe my wishes would come true. And maybe I could keep myself safe from Him, too.

It is January 2015. I am twenty-eight years old and in a hospital room, writhing by a countertop, clinging to the edges as I endure the next wave of contractions. I’ve labored through the night to bring our first child into the world. I don’t pray as I push. If I did, I think the prayers would come out with a dusty rattle, like an echo from an ancient house; they are so unpracticed.

I pray occasionally, often frantically, when something in life feels wrong, off, or worrisome. I pray like an afterthought, “Oh hey, remember me down here? Can you lend a girl a hand? I’ll even bargain with you. I promise…” I whisper these frantic longings, especially during a deployment rotation, when I envision my Ryan marching around with his fellow Marines; I’m a world away with no control.

But I don’t stop and try to sort my feelings about faith. They have knotted up inside me for years, sometimes bursting forth when I hear someone else talk about their faith. I listen and feel an uncomfortable heat rising in me when they speak. Various friends invite me to their churches to talk with me, and I thank them and tell them, “I’m not ready yet,” it hangs between us as a truth and a lie. I bow my head as others pray, and I am glad to respect and share in their moment, but I still don’t know.

I don’t know how I got here, unbelieving.

I was raised in a Christian home with the best of parents. I went to Sunday School classrooms and candlelight Christmas Eves. I was delighted with my first childhood storybook, the Bible. I sat in my chair in the same teddy bear-bordered room and read my Teen Bible like a detective hunting for clues. I sat in church and told Jesus to enter my heart and please stay there and help me.

But somewhere in my mid-twenties, I awoke to the knowledge of world crisis and human hatred, churches turning their backs on who I felt needed it most. I saw judgment and more that could not be explained, and I felt myself run. I don’t know what one factor led me to high-tail it, but I sprinted. Like an animal freed from a trap, I fled from not just religion but faith.

The hospital room is dim, a choice we made to keep the environment calm. I’m crouched on the floor, squatting during labor. My groans and pants are instinctive, my body intertwined in a primal dance as I release a baby girl from my womb. I’m the first to catch her; hold her to me. The nurses and my husband somehow move me back onto the bed.

I am not paying attention to anyone or anything but her. It’s like pixie dust is swirling around her; the soft light of this soul in my arms lifts me to another atmosphere. I wonder how I tricked Heaven into releasing her to Earth, and I sing “You Are My Sunshine.” I’ve sung it every night of my pregnancy; her eyes look on mine with otherworldly wisdom. “I know you,” her eyes seem to glimmer, and I nod through tears. “You do,” I say to her aloud. “You know me.”

I feel a shift; a rusty key turned in my heart. This new relationship with my baby girl begins an awakening. She is a miracle. And I want her to know there are more miracles to behold. I want to understand the blessing before me. I want to thank someone for her! When I watch her delicate lips purse, her fingers flexing around mine, and her feathery eyelashes rest as she sleeps, a desire fills me. I want her to know something I don’t. I want her to know someone I don’t know.

It is not an overnight change. Instead, it takes years. Ten years, in fact, and it is still ongoing. I learn about God with my daughter and, in a few years, also with my son. There are subtle shifts and breadcrumbs He places in our path. They are people, places, and experiences where He winks at us. Sometimes, it is more than a wink. It feels like a tug, a push, an order: “Eyes up! Notice this!” I think I hear Him say.

I start talking with faithful friends. I pick up a devotional, then another. I blast K-Love in the car, which makes me feel silly, but the courage it gives me to keep pursuing God means my radio stays on the channel. I go to a church, and hot tears leak down my face when worship music fills the room. I choke as I sing, my hands braced in the air. At one service, we sing repeatedly, “Less of me. More of You,” I crave the relationship we’re trying to build. I squeeze my eyes shut in silent prayer. My Father, I want to know you.

I’m overwhelmed by how He is still here, there, everywhere.

What is it to come back to Him? I battle the shame in my heart for leaving, but I also realize how hard it is to remain faithful while the world weeps with brokenness. I pause with empathy when someone else whispers that they’re not sure about God right now. I don’t try to solve it or gloss over it. I listen and tell them He’s worth pursuing. I tell them I was once dead in spirit but am alive again. Living is not for the faint of heart. It never was, and it never will be. That is why I need a champion. A savior. A hope in the dark.

I fight the ignorance of my knowledge. I’m still a Sunday schooler in understanding much of the Bible. I pull inward when friends can quote passages and lay down Biblical timelines. My neck hair raises in embarrassment. I’m not mad at them, but my lack triggers a duel with my pride so fierce it almost makes me want to quit.I’m so far behind those of faith who kept believing when I stopped. But when I hold my kid’s hands and we keep reading His word, I think I might be right on time.

In the summer of 2024, the heat of August in Texas, radiates outside our windows. My children and I huddle around the table, snacking on sliced apples and carrots. We’re frozen in our chairs, listening to an audio version of the final installment of The Chronicles of Narnia. Chills run through me as I hear, “Courage, child: we are all between the paws of the true Aslan.”

I study my children’s faces and wonder if they know the correlation between the character Aslan the Lion and God. I wonder if they know their small forms drove me back to a ragged belief and that studying with them has strengthened my relationship with the Almighty. I wonder if I am doing enough for their faith.

I breathe in through my nose and out to calm myself. I will do what I can and surrender to God.

He is after their hearts just as he was after mine. I believe that. Some days, I might still have to pray, “Lord, help me with my disbelief,” and that He shows up for that, too.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Alive."