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A note – I’m in a much better place than when I originally wrote this, but I think I’m probably not the only one who has been there….

What do I believe?

I always thought I had a strong faith. I believe there’s more to life than what I know, or see.

There must be a grand plan beyond my comprehension or understanding.

But the year I lost both parents, I realized it’s not so easy to hold on to that certainty, when the only tie left between you is the shaky belief that somehow they’re still out there.

I wish I had the faith of people who see signs everywhere. A message in every feather or coin, meaning in numbers, dreams popping up with guidance and reassuring answers.

I’m conflicted about what to tell my kids.

When they say they’re not sure what they believe, I don’t want to admit I’m struggling with my own doubts.

Am I a hypocrite, telling them our life is based on it, and having faith means believing without proof?

I can’t command them to have faith. I also don’t want them to be sheep who just parrot what they’ve been told without thinking.

But many times in my life I’ve felt comfort from the certainty that someone else is in charge, prayers are answered, and everything turns out all right in the end.

I didn’t realize how badly my faith had been shaken until Easter. I went out of town for a visit, where I attended a friend’s church, surrounded by strangers.

I liked being anonymous. No one felt the need to console me, at a time when sympathies often felt disconcerting.

But even before the Pastor began his sermon, I started thinking about why we were here today.

Easter – the belief in life after death, the kingdom of heaven – a central tenet of Christian faith.

After the gathering prayer, a family stepped forward to sing. The wife said they decided to perform a different song than the one listed in the bulletin.

I had no expectations, yet was surprised as they launched into a hymn by one of mom’s favorite gospel groups, the Gaithers. She’d often listened to their CDs for comfort while in the hospital.

I was stunned – this wasn’t the type of tune I normally heard in a Lutheran Church. I fought back tears for the entire song:

God sent His son, they called Him, Jesus;
He came to love, heal and forgive;
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives!

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow,
Because He lives, all fear is gone;
Because I know He holds the future,
And life is worth the living,
Just because He lives!

I was left reeling.

When the Pastor spoke of the joy that awaits us, Jesus dying for our sins so we could have eternal life, I asked myself again, what do I really believe?

If I’m having doubts about Mom and Dad being in a better place, wondering why I don’t feel them, questioning if there’s anything left of them at all, how can I believe any of it?

I didn’t have an answer.

For the first time, I felt the utter, black despair of losing faith.

I had never been hopeless before.

Sure, there were times I felt down, or frustrated, sad or angry. But not this.

Not nothing to look forward to, what’s the point of it all, if it’s all for nothing emptiness.

Weeks later, I was disturbed by how the movie “The Grey” affected me.

I caught it on pay-per-view on a weekend I was looking for distraction. I vaguely remembered glowing reviews – something about great male bonding – but I mostly expected a mindless survival thriller.

It was foreshadowed early on that Liam Neeson’s tough-guy character had a greater battle playing out in his head.

Long story short, although nearly suicidal with grief, when forced to face inescapable danger, he discovers he’s not ready to give up, and vows to fight to his last breath.

The struggle to carry on after losing faith strikes too close to home.

And the movie leaves me confused about the message. Was the point supposed to be about the frustration of unanswered prayers, a man who feels abandoned by God, who ultimately has to rely on himself? Or was getting the will to fight back an unacknowledged gift and his answer?

I don’t know. It’s all disturbing to think about.

For over a year, I’d badgered my mom to keep fighting through torture, and now I’m ready to give up just because I’m sad and lost?

It’s small consolation I don’t entertain suicidal thoughts because of my boys. I’d rather be reason enough on my own.

I want to return to being sure of my faith. Like when I met Doris’ family.

It was years ago that Doris perished in a house fire. As a newspaper reporter, it was my job to write about the tragedy, but I dreaded having to intrude on her family to get the story. The last thing I wanted to do was bring them more misery from rehashing sad details.

I put off calling for an interview, and decided to photograph the home. I drove through the woods bordering a river to reach the charred wreckage in the middle of a secluded lot. There wasn’t much left to see, the house reduced to dark heaps of rubble.

As I walked around, looking for photo angles, a truck drove into the yard. Her family had returned, planning one final scavenging for valuables. I was embarrassed to be caught there.

Reluctantly, I introduced myself and asked if they felt like talking. To my surprise, they said they were grateful for the opportunity. They sadly pointed out how little they’d been able to salvage  – less than a pickup load, which had come from a nearby shed.

But they were convinced there had been some divine intervention.

“The fire destroyed the house, but the good Lord left one thing – our wedding picture,” said her husband. They’d discovered it underneath a stack of charred books, protected by a paper folder, in perfect condition. It was their only copy.

Doris’ sudden death in the fire was a shock to the family, but they wanted to believe that maybe she was spared a lot of future pain.

She’d just begun chemo treatment for breast cancer. They said since she never complained, you would never know if it was bad.

The family’s faith gave them comfort. The day of the funeral, the weather matched their sorrow – a blanket of snow falling from the heavens throughout the service. “When our brother died of leukemia back in ‘77, the day of the funeral it just poured rain. And when it snowed like that for Mom’s, I thought, ‘There’s a sign again.’ Some people want to dismiss all of it as coincidence – the wedding picture, everything – but we believe in something more.”

As one son summed up, his sister, digging through the rubble, held up a final discovery. “It’s Mom’s Bible.”

I got chills. In the midst of such strong faith, it was impossible to believe it mere coincidence.

I struggle to get that conviction back.

I don’t know how to exist in a world where everything is random, with no pattern or purpose. I have to believe there’s something more for me to be able to get up in the morning.

I’ve always said that if atheists are right, I’ve lost nothing, but look what they could be sacrificing. I’d rather be a mistaken fool, who can hope for better, than a faithless cynic thinking it’s all a crapshoot, no one in charge, and no point to believing in anything.

I want to believe in a God that’s benevolent.

I think my parents went through tough times because of the choices they made along the way, not because God wanted them to suffer.

I like to think of God as improv director. He puts people and situations together, then sits back and says, let’s see what you do with that. Free will creates the story.

If we get too far off track, he says you can do better, let’s start at the top and run through it again – that’s why themes are recurring.

I believe he wants the best for us and out of us, but we’re supposed to figure out how to get there ourselves.

Maybe not exactly what’s taught in Sunday school, but it feels right to me.

As I spell it all out, it makes such complete sense to me. I just wish I knew how to find my way back to believing I’m right again.