Ya Gotta Believe (sort of)

The refrain from Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” has been running through my mind for several days.

“Whoa, we’re halfway there

Whoaaa, living on a prayer”

This morning I had my 16^th radiation treatment.  I’m officially two treatments beyond “halfway there”.  What’s interesting is my focus has not been on the first line of the lyrics.  Instead, my mind is mulling over the idea of “living on a prayer”.   I’ve spent a good part of the last five weeks contemplating what it is I truly think about God, religion, and the power of prayer.  Nothing like a good cancer scare to make someone examine his or her faith.

The thing is, I’m 42, and I’m still not sure what I believe.  I’ve been searching most of my life for a faith I can grasp with my heart and my mind, and thus far, I’ve come up short.  I suppose, on a fundamental level, I have a sense of some kind of God, but I have trouble maintaining any sort of consistent personal connection.

I was raised in a “Jewish” home, but never given any foundation on which to build a belief system.  My knowledge of Judaism consisted of the following basic ideas:

We faced adversity and persecution.

We overcame adversity and persecution.

Let’s eat.

Name a major Jewish holiday, and I will tell you the food associated with it.  I remember conversations about the Bar Mitzvahs of my cousins; they focused less on the Torah and more on the Viennese dessert table at the reception. 

My ignorance was not limited to my own “faith”. Once, when I was about eight, I returned home from a sleepover with exciting news. The night before, my friend’s parents read us a story from the “New” Testament.  I couldn’t wait to tell my mom that there was a new bible!  We only had the old one, and I wanted her to go out and buy the new one!

In my 20’s, I thought I found the faith I was seeking in Catholicism. After a year of weekly classes, I experienced baptism, first communion, and confirmation in one fell swoop during an Easter Vigil.  After moving away from NJ, I realized that it was my husband’s parish and not Catholicism that brought me a sense of peace and belonging.  I mistook the warm embrace of a wonderful church community for the serenity one can find in a real connection with God.  So, once again I find myself searching. This formerly non-practicing Jewish girl is now a non-practicing Catholic, and I’m no closer to understanding what I believe.

I admire the people in my life who possess a real certitude of faith.  My friends and family run the gamut from devout Christians and Jews, to confirmed atheists and agnostics.  There are even a few Pastafarians in the mix. (They believe in the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Google it if you are unfamiliar.) Regardless of what they believe, I envy their ability to embrace their chosen faith without doubt. I want the peace that comes with that kind of conviction, but it eludes me.

I’ve spent several years in 12-step recovery dealing with my compulsive eating disorder.  The core of my recovery lies in accepting my powerlessness and turning my life and will over to a “Higher Power” (God) of my understanding. I know that the greatest obstacle to my recovery has been my inability to embrace any sort of “Higher Power” without reservation.

I want to believe.  I look back on my life thus far, and I get a sense that events have happened for a reason.  Disappointments have led to greater good fortune, which makes me think there is some larger force directing my life.  We did not want to leave Oak Harbor in 2003; however, moving away led us to the people who helped create our family.  Gregg’s departure from aviation was a bitter pill to swallow, but it led to greater opportunities for both his career and our family.  For some reason, I only seem to recognize God in hindsight, and even then, I wonder if my “faith” is nothing more than an attempt to assign meaning to random coincidences as a way to make sense of my life.

Now, as I continue my fight with cancer, I find my sense of faith waxes and wanes.  Most days I’m convinced that this journey has a purpose beyond my understanding, and one day I will comprehend why I was chosen for this particular battle. Other days I cannot accept that my disease is anything more than the result of a lifetime of poor dietary habits and lousy genetics.

Gandhi once wrote, “Faith is not something to grasp, it is a state to grow into.”  I guess I thought by the age of 42, I’d be done with growing pains.