Faith Didn't Begin as Certainty
I didn't grow up with a clean, linear faith story.
There was no moment where the clouds parted, no altar call that neatly rearranged my life into something whole and holy. Faith, for me, came quietly—often unnoticed—woven into moments I didn't understand until much later.
For a long time, I thought God showed up only when life made sense. When prayers were answered quickly. When obedience led to visible reward. When suffering had a clear reason attached to it. And because so much of my life felt chaotic, painful, or unresolved, I assumed God must have been distant—or worse, disappointed.
The Seasons Where Survival Was the Prayer
There were seasons where survival was the only prayer I could manage. Seasons where faith wasn't confidence—it was endurance. I kept moving forward without knowing why, making choices that felt instinctive rather than spiritual.
At the time, it felt random. I didn't call it faith, I called it momentum. I called it stubbornness. I called it necessity.
But looking back, those instincts carried a quiet direction to them.
When the Pattern Became Clear
Doors closed that would have destroyed me.
People left when I was clinging too tightly.
Strength appeared in moments where I had no business being strong.
What once felt like loss now feels like protection. What felt like delay now looks like preparation. What felt like isolation now feels like space—space God used to keep shaping me when I wasn't paying attention.
I didn't see a pattern back then. Now I can't unsee it.
Faith as Persistence, Not Answers
Faith didn't arrive as certainty. It arrived as persistence.
As the refusal to quit, even when quitting would have been easier.
As the pull toward kindness when bitterness would have been justified.
As hope that kept resurfacing, no matter how often life tried to bury it.
I used to think faith meant having answers.
Now I believe faith means trusting the hand holding the pen—even when you can't see the next page.
God Doesn't Waste Chapters
There are chapters of my life I wouldn't have chosen. Paragraphs I would rewrite if I could. Entire sections that still ache when I reread them.
But I'm beginning to understand something important: authorship doesn' mean approval of pain—it means purpose beyond it.
God doesn't waste chapters.
This book—Faith—is not about perfection or performance. It's about learning to recognize God's presence in hindsight, in struggle, in slow growth, and in unfinished healing. It's about noticing the subtle redirections, the quiet rescues, the strength that shows up unannounced.
Learning to Keep Reading
If my life is a story still being written, then faith is trusting that the Author knows where it's going—even when I don't.
And maybe the most honest prayer I can offer right now is this:
Help me keep reading.
"In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps." — Proverbs 16:9