Why I Believe in God
And yet still find Its presence in my life to be an unending mystery
When I was a little girl, my private Christian school teachers taught me all about God. Who was he? A protective (and judgmental) man in the sky with a long white beard who was always watching us.
I was half-comforted by this, half-terrified. I loved feeling like a grandpa-dude was up there, making sure I was safe, but I didn’t so much love feeling like he was watching when I was, say, in bed, diddling around with that little flap of skin between my legs that felt so good. Something about being watched during certain activities made me feel gross.
I really started butting heads with Old Dude in the Sky when my parents announced their surprise pregnancy when I was ten years old. They were very open about the fact that they had not planned the pregnancy — my dad was 45 by then — but that they were incredibly excited about it.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t stop thinking about that man in the sky. I knew he was watching us and checking his spreadsheets. He probably wouldn’t have been pleased by this accidental turn of good fortune. Had we earned this? Weren’t we already a happy, very lucky family with a nice house and a good dentist and plenty of food on the table?
God wasn’t going to like this, I decided. There were too many people in the world who were suffering and here we were, already fortunate, already blessed, and just taking more blessings without having to put in any extra effort.
I knew he was watching us and checking his spreadsheets. He probably wouldn’t have been pleased by this accidental turn of good fortune. Had we earned this?
I became convinced that my baby brother Jack was going to die. God would see our imbalance on his spreadsheets and take Jack away from us.
When my mom put Jack in his crib for his daily naps, I would sneak into her bedroom and sit next to him until he woke up, because I was so afraid he would stop breathing. When he was a toddler, I didn’t like to let him stumble around on his clumsy feet because I was terrified he would fall and suffer a fatal head injury, so I carried him everywhere. When he started riding a bike, I’d run alongside him, making sure he was always safe. And when he went sledding, I had genuine panic attacks as I struggled to make sure he was safe on his runs down the steep hill in our backyard. I knew even in my caution that one wrong turn, one tip of that sled could send him hurtling into a rock, and I could not relax until I escorted him safely back into the house.
It took me fifteen years to start to relax, to let go of those fears, to realize that Jack was not going anywhere. Not because I started to trust God, but because I stopped believing in that old man in the sky.
In my teen years, free from the private Christian schools of my youth, I began researching other religions. I’ve always been a curious person, but nothing has piqued my interest more than the subject of spirituality. I wanted to know what other people believed, what other religions were like.
Honestly, the whole “old man in the sky” thing was not working for me.
I found myself diving deeply into Buddhism, which seemed to understand the intense struggles I was experiencing and normalized them in a way that made me feel like I belonged, somehow. I was human and I was suffering. Right on track.
I also studied paganism, which showed me that I wasn’t the only one who saw the natural world as sacred. God — Goddess, rather — was in every flower, every grain of dirt, which is exactly what I had suspected as a child, long before I felt I had to believe in that white-bearded deity in the clouds.
Honestly, the whole “old man in the sky” thing was not working for me.
Somewhere during that time, I stopped being able to define who God was. I no longer saw God as an anthropomorphized figure. I no longer saw God as having a gender. I no longer saw God as a being in the sky, watching over us.
I really didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know who God was anymore. For a time, I wasn’t even sure I believed in God.
I sensed I should, though, because there was one thing I knew: I knew I had a soul. I can’t explain why or how, but even as a child, I could feel the difference between my soul, my personality, and my body. These were not the same things — just parts of me that overlapped.
So if I had a soul…didn’t that prove the existence of an unseen creator, as well?
When I was 19, standing in my kitchen one morning, I felt the presence of another person. I turned to see if my boyfriend had entered the room, but there was no one there.
This presence was so strong that I literally called out to him to see where he was. Maybe he was trying to sneak up on me? But no, he was still in bed.
All throughout the day, I felt this presence everywhere I went. No matter where I was — on my walk, in my car, in the shower — I felt the company of this other person even when I was most assuredly alone.
A few days later, it finally dawned on me that I was pregnant. The soul I felt, that strong feeling that I was in another person’s presence at all times, was my baby.
The next few months were what I can only describe as an intense spiritual experience. The baby spoke to me from early on, telling me I would never get to meet her — she was only there to help me leave my boyfriend. She said he was going to hurt me in a way I could not heal from if I did not leave and that since I had not demonstrated a willingness to save myself from him, she knew that I would leave him in order to save my child from his violence.
I knew, somehow, that this had been orchestrated by “God,” whoever that was. Not an old man in the sky, but some benevolent force of creation that had literally put a guardian angel into my body to get me to do what I hadn’t had the strength to do before then.
The next few months were what I can only describe as an intense spiritual experience. The baby spoke to me from early on, telling me I would never get to meet her — she was only there to help me leave my boyfriend.
One day that spring, shortly after the miscarriage that I had known was coming, I found myself in a deep depression. I knew I had to leave my boyfriend — that had been the directive. But I was overwhelmed with sadness that the whole messy relationship had led me to such a dark place.
I collapsed on the bed one afternoon, just before sunset. My boyfriend was downstairs in the living room, watching a movie. I laid there on the bed, fully clothed, watching the light dim at the window, crying softly.
“What do I do?” I asked this newly forming understanding of God that I was sensing. “Please help me.”
I closed my eyes, feeling no presence respond, which was a torture I cannot describe when I had just spent the last few months feeling enveloped in the bubble of love and companionship I had felt with my baby. All of that was gone that night on the bed. I could feel my aloneness more intensely than I ever had. The contrast was agonizing.
I couldn’t feel even the faintest memory of connection to my child. And I couldn’t feel any connection to God, either.
I imagined my uncle then, who had died suddenly a few months before, shocking the entire family with the unexpected loss. I started crying again — my grief was still so deep — and I felt him hugging me in my imagination.
Suddenly, the image of him dissipated into a million stars and I felt as if I had shot upward into outer space — but no. Further. Higher than that.
I was being held in that infinite place, I realized. I looked down and saw a giant hand cradling me. I sensed that it was the hand of Jesus, which seems strange, I suppose, considering the fact that I did not think of myself as a Christian at that point, nor after it. But I’ve always felt a strong connection to Jesus’ spiritual teachings, so it did not surprise me in that moment to feel his presence.
“You are not alone,” he said. Except that I knew it wasn’t him speaking, but God speaking through him. “I’ve got you.”
I was there, in that space for a very long time. “Time” isn’t the right word, in fact, because there was no time. I could feel myself — my body — far, far away somewhere. I knew it was on that bed in my house, but I was not in it anymore. I knew my soul was someplace else, someplace my body could not reach.
So I laid there, deeply comforted, until, a long time later, I felt myself slowly slipping back downward, funneling back into my body like liquid being poured into a bottle.
“You are not alone,” he said. Except that I knew it wasn’t him speaking, but God speaking through him. “I’ve got you.”
I opened my eyes and found myself in pitch darkness. Nearly two hours had passed.
I felt afraid, suddenly — was it a dream? Would I get up, go downstairs to join my boyfriend, and be crushed by the weight of my depression and grief yet again? Or had this been real? Was I really not alone?
I rose, carefully walked down the stairs, and with each step, I could still feel the buoyancy of my soul. I still felt the presence of God within me. I still felt strong and supported. Held.
I sat down with my boyfriend and we watched a movie together. My spirit felt strong all that night and the next morning.
When he came out to the deck after breakfast to smoke his cigarette while I was sitting next to him, drinking a glass of water and then threw his cigarette into my cup just as I lifted it to my mouth, I stared at that cigarette floating there, saw his utter contempt for me so clearly, still felt God’s energy thrumming in my body, and I stood up and said in utter calmness, “I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.”
Years later, I was stunned to find that many people who have had “out of body experiences,” or deep spiritual visions all reported the same thing: being held in the hand of God. That is exactly what happened to me.
I was never able to replicate this feeling, this experience, as some people have been able to do, but I don’t need to. It made me a believer.
Over the years, I’ve had other experiences with God that have confirmed my belief. Often, God speaks to me very clearly with specific instructions or reassurances and even proof. God knows that I’m a little bit of a cynic, so It plays my game and will tell me things like, “You will hear [this particular word] or see [this particular sight] before the end of the day and that will prove that what I’m telling you is real and not just a dream.”
I always laugh at that — God knows me so well. And yes, It always follows through. Every promise of confirmation is fulfilled.
People who don’t believe in God argue that this being cannot exist because surely It wouldn’t let the Holocaust happen. God wouldn’t have let the witch trials happen. God wouldn’t have allowed slavery or colonization.
But I don’t see that as God’s doing. I see that as people’s doing. We are at fault for those crimes, not God.
Though I admit, I still struggle to believe sometimes. There are selfish issues that make me question God’s existence — or at least Its endgame. Why, for example, did I not get to have the family that I wanted so badly? And why, when I finally realized that would never happen, when I hit an age where being a young mother was no longer possible, did God grant me the overwhelming blessing of a nephew who felt like a son to me, who captured my heart and soul so completely, who made me feel like a mother…only to take him away from me a year later? Honestly, that one really hurts in ways I cannot fully express.
All I know is, there is only one word that always goes with “God”: Why? And that’s the one question that will never be answered. Because if there’s one thing I know about God, it’s that God is mystery above all else.
I do believe. I believe in a presence that is invisible to our eyes. What that presence is, I don’t know. What Its purpose is, I couldn’t even venture to guess.
But It is there. I feel that in the deepest part of myself, in the glimmer of stardust from which I was made.
And that’s probably all I will ever know of God. But it’s enough.
© Yael Wolfe 2020
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