When Faith Isn’t About Believing in More

A long time ago, I remember asking my dad how he had the strength most days to get out of bed and keep moving. To have faith. To believe. To be honest, I have no clue what his answer was. At that particular time, I think I was simply incapable of listening to anything anyone had to say to me. Fast forward years later, and I found myself asking him the same question. This time I listened.

While I don’t remember his exact words, I do remember the gist of what he said. In a nutshell what spurred him on, even when everything else was seemingly going to shit, was the idea that there simply had to be something better at the end of the line. Because if he didn’t believe that, than really, what was the point? He answered me with the kind of conviction that can only come from having a deeply-rooted faith.

I don’t consider him to be a religious man, but personally I don’t think religion and faith necessarily go hand in hand. Regardless, I think he takes great comfort in the “something more,” and I admire that about him. I wish I could believe that, too. Once upon a time, I think I did. I, too, could close my eyes and feel that same assurance – that there simply was just so.much.more. But somewhere along the way, I stopped believing. For me, the end of the line is just that – a hard stop to nothing.

Some days I envy those who have that inherent faith. I envy their hope, their ability to see beyond what is just in front of them and to view death as a mere transition to something better instead of a finite end. I realize I’m missing out on a deeper kind of peace, but is a peace built on belief alone enough? If I embraced faith just for the sake of comfort, would it feel real? My guess is no.

Yesterday I went to my friend’s dad’s wake with a few other girlfriends. The deacon spoke about how one day, we’ll all be reunited, as death isn’t an end, just a passage to something greater. As I listened, I looked around and wondered how many people there took comfort in that thought, in that promise of eternity. And I wished I believed in that same eternal reunion.

But then I realized: maybe certainty isn’t the point. Maybe faith isn’t about having all the answers, but about learning to live with the questions. I may never again believe in the “something more” the way my dad does or the way the deacon spoke of, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe faith doesn’t have to look the same for everyone. It doesn’t make any of our beliefs right or wrong.

I’m starting to recognize that my beliefs don’t stem around pearly white gates or a grand heavenly reunion, although I sure do love a big party, but more about finding peace within myself. My belief isn’t focused on what comes after this life, but more on learning to be content in the present moment. Maybe faith isn’t about the certainty or promises of something more, but about trusting that this life, with all its highs and lows, is enough. Perhaps the peace I’m seeking isn’t found in the more but in the “just enough” that I can create within myself. Maybe that, in its own way, is my kind of faith.