Keeping the Faith

For whatever reason, I don't feel like writing about commuting, or Chicagoans, or even about the weather today. I am heading to Lollapalooza later, and I'm sure that at least one story will arise from the sea of sweaty music fans congregating down in Grant Park to hear Radiohead tonight. Stay tuned for those on Monday. Pun entirely intended, Jenny.

For now, though, I have a more serious (or personal?) topic to write about. It's been on my mind, and I'm now dumping it out on the table, for all of you to read. Or not. If not, see you Monday when the times are lighter and the posts are funnier. I hope!

Faith is a much discussed, oft debated issue. Especially in election times, the subject of faith is on the evening news, embedded into people's thoughts and often drifts into everyday chatter.

I do not plan to discuss, debate or criticize religion here, or even express my current religious views, relative to politics or otherwise. This isn't that kind of post, and frankly, I'm not that kind of writer.

The subject of faith, for me, is less religious, and more a recognition of the intangibles in life. Those things that we trust, even though we can't see, hear, touch or taste. Those things we just know.

My question is this though: why do we call it a 'leap of faith?' Isn't it really more gradual than that? You grow into it, just as you may grow into a manner of self-confidence, and it grows bigger and deeper and wider the more you languish in it?

I know that the phrase means that you leap, with faith, but really, it has always seem so jolting, and scary, for me. A leap off a cliff comes to mind. Not a pleasant image.

No, for me, faith—and the gradual acceptance of all that we cannot see—grows with time. Warms like a cozy fire, comforts like a bubble bath, seeps in like happiness. Often, the changes and comfort with the notion of faith are subtle and they appear only as we mature.

Faith can be a trust in what is supposed to be—knowing that things will work out the way they should, if you let them. Faith can be a deep-seeded knowledge that you're making the right decision and the confidence to move forward not looking back. Faith can be a gentle nodding, acknowledging the changes in life that make us who we are. Faith can be allowing those who know and love you to be a guide. Faith can be a recognition that we can't change everything, or anyone, and that is okay. Faith can be a gentle nudge that pushes you to try something new, giving up on old insecurities or fears that have kept you from growing.

Defined as such, faith is a big part of who I am. From a spiritual perspective, faith has meant that even when I can't define something, or explain it, I trust and have faith that it is real. When a friend struggled to understand faith as a teenager, I asked the priest to help me help her. His explanation was simple.

"Faith is something that you believe in, and know is true, even though you can't prove it. Ask you friend if she loves her mother," he said, "and when she says yes, ask her to prove it. When she can't, tell her that is faith. Believing with your whole heart that something is real, despite the lack of scientific proof, evidence, or even simple appearances. That, my dear, is faith."

I have faith that he knew what he was talking about, and still rely on that definition today.

When a friendship feels changed, and you're not sure that things will be the same, and that time or circumstances or distance has created a crevice in the friendship that feels to large to surmount, to deep to cross, to painful to admit, I have faith that the friendship will heal if it is meant to be.

When a career feels uncertain, and you're not sure if the good that has been will continue to be, I have faith that the decisions I've made have led me to here and that much I can trust and count on, and that I can't always understand why things happen, but I have to admit that on the other side of these obstacles will be something greater than where I am now.

When a relationship feels unsteady, and fear is getting the best of you as you plunge headfirst into a state of general vulnerability, I have faith that what will be will be, and that we'll survive. I have faith that instincts are there for a reason, and that a good feeling in your gut sometimes is enough reason to go on. I have faith in the fact that I am worth loving and that what I can offer to another person is something they should treasure and value, even if it is scary at the time.

I have faith that things happen for a reason, and often those reasons aren't revealed to us until much later. Only then does the light of recognition shine, and we nod silently and think, "Oh, yes. That explains it all."

I have faith that people come into your life, for a short period or for a lifetime, with a purpose. We learn new things, experience highs and lows, and often, we have to decide to let that person go and live with the memories and the joys of growing stronger for having known them.

Having grown up in the Catholic Church, faith meant believing in God, living a good life with good works, and being a person that trusted God's will, and lived a life that He would be proud of. Faith also meant believing in things that seemed too unlikely to be true, miracles or stories or historically based events that meant something and had application today.

But, faith's very definition can be shaken up and revealed to us in a more practical manner.

After college, I went on a trip with two girls to Europe, and we had a ball visiting all of the churches, museums, monuments, parks, pubs, hotels and hostels we could find. One incident stands out in my mind, and to me, is the definition of faith.

We were in Rome, and it was a hot July day. Steamy and damp, the air was nearly strangling us as we waited to enter St. Peter's Basilica. Having been on the road for a month or so, I was missing my family and feeling the faint stirrings of homesickness. I needed a few moments to myself—as much as I loved traveling with these two special friends, I knew I could use some quiet "me" time there in that sacred church.

I stepped off to the side, into one of the smaller chapels, and glanced around, only to notice that there were hardly any tourists in this area. Needing some privacy for my quiet time, I chose a pew that was empty, and clear of anyone in front, to the side, or behind me. I crossed myself and knelt onto the fabric kneeler. At first, I just allowed myself to enjoy the cool air, the darkness and the damp, quiet space.

As was my habit, I quietly bowed my head with closed eyes and placed my hands folded in front of me, with elbows resting on the cold wooden pew in front of me. I asked God to clear my mind, to allow me to be "with myself' there in that place. I must've said a few quiet prayers for safe travels, my family and other personal requests for blessings. I remember distinctly then asking God to be with me. To come to me, and to be with me.

It was at that moment that I felt someone kneel right next to me. The bench cushion dipped to my right, and I felt the warmth and the weight of another person as they entered into their prayer moment. Frankly, I was surprised they'd chosen to sit so close to me, and a little annoyed that now my thoughts were on their proximity, rather than on my prayers. Ever the easily distracted, I managed to keep my eyes closed, but was still supremely aware of this person next to me, just to my right.

I finished up, crossed myself, and slowly opened my eyes.

There was no one sitting next to me.

I couldn't believe it. I blinked a few times, looked around me, and just stared at the empty pew, the blank cushion, and the bare kneeler.

Not a soul.

At that moment, I was covered in goosebumps and realized that God had answered my faithful prayers. He was with me, and would stay with me and protect me and my friends as we traveled on through Europe, and likely, throughout my life.

Tears filled my eyes, and poured down my face. I couldn't explain it, and I didn't try.

It took me a few hours to get back to my normal self, and my friends allowed me the privacy of that moment. They didn't ask, and at first, I didn't share. Later, as we dined in Rome against a backdrop of such beautiful buildings steeped in history, I told them my story. Embarrassed that they'd think I was being dramatic, I downplayed it as much as I could.

But, that was almost 10 years ago and I can still feel the presence of someone next to me on the pew as readily as I could that hot summer day in Rome.

That, my friends, is how I define faith. A gradual acceptance of those things we can't always understand, explain or prove, but an acknowledgement that sometimes that is okay.

Not a leap at all.