When words fail you...

I've been trying to find the words for this post for several weeks now. After multiple failed attempts at writing it, I've decided that perhaps the right words don't exist. Maybe it is a feeling that can't quite be explained, but must instead be felt to understand. Nevertheless, I've always relied on the written word to express myself, so bear with me as I try my best with the ones that make their way from my brain to the keyboard.

For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with my faith. I think this is because I grew up in a family that didn't talk about it much. I had a children's Bible that I rifled through from time to time. For a couple years, my mom met with a Jehovah's Witness in our dining room as I sat in the kitchen, straining my ears with curiosity. My dad taught me the basics of evolution before I knew how to multiply and divide. When it became trendy, I attended a weekly children's church service with a friend and memorized various Bible verses from the New Testament in exchange for prizes.

As I entered high school, I noticed that the kind of people I wanted to be around were all involved with Young Life, a Christian ministry that hosted weekly events for students. I started to attend Club on Monday nights, primarily because my friends went...and so did the guy I liked. Those nights were filled with games, skits, songs, a lesson from the Bible, and Jones soda. Every week, I had a great time and learned a lot about Scripture, but left with more questions than answers. On the drive home, I would often cry, feeling confused and remarkably left out, despite being surrounded by friends.

When I went to college, most of my friends became Young Life leaders. One of my former leaders started a church in a nearby town and I attended a few times alongside my faithful friends. But when everyone was called up for communion, I stayed awkwardly in my seat, glancing around nervously, hoping that no one would notice. Of course, everyone noticed, but I didn't want to pretend to feel something I didn't.

I spent hours doing research on various religions and took classes on it in college. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get my rational mind, which valued things like science and fact, to take the leap of faith required for religion. Despite hours of prayer and countless tears, I felt lost, slightly judged, and singularly alone...until I met Wheat.

Wheat's father is an Episcopalian minister, so I was concerned that my faith (or lack thereof) would be a problem in our relationship. Instead, he embraced everything about me and was happy to answer many of the questions that I was previously too embarrassed to ask. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, he comforted me and prayed around-the-clock for her healing. He held me as I cried and questioned God, listened as I expressed my concerns and reservations, and ultimately carried me through my grieving.

As my mom's chemotherapy began, it became abundantly clear to me that I met Wheat at a remarkably convenient and necessary time in my life. I've always been frustrated with the phrase 'Everything happens for a reason,' but this felt like perfect proof. I couldn't believe that I met my counterpart, the person I most want to spend both the exciting and heartbreaking moments of my journey with, right before the biggest emotional (and physical) challenge of my life.

When my mom was first diagnosed, the oncologist and surgeon used the words 'stage four' with bleak looks on their faces. One of them pulled my dad aside and told him that without chemotherapy and treatment, my mom would have three or four months left to live. She was misdiagnosed with ovarian cancer, then properly diagnosed with colon cancer, causing me to call into question the one thing I had trusted my entire life: science. Suddenly, I was faced with the reality that medicine isn't an exact science. As I continued to research cancer and treatment options, I realized that sometimes, inexplicable things happen.

March 2nd marks one year since we found out my mom had cancer. In that time, she has gone from stage four to no signs of disease. The surgeon who performed her recent colostomy reversal procedure (and also did the initial surgery) used the word 'miraculous' to describe her situation. And although I have the utmost respect for her doctors and I'm endlessly grateful for what they've done, I can't help but feel that something else, something bigger, has been at work here.

I'm not even entirely sure where this leaves me, but I do know it has changed me in a profound way. Despite my inability to see it before, I now realize that some things simply can't be explained with science, facts, and words - the things I've relied on most for my entire life. Before, it seemed like such a cop-out to say that a person simply cannot grasp the magnitude of the universe, the depths of the sea, the workings of the human mind. Selfishly, I always thought I would be able to explain these things to myself, rationalize how it all fits together so perfectly. Over the course of the last year, however, I've started to come to terms with the fact that I'll never comprehend all the hows and whys of the way the world works. Instead, I'm finding peace in the fact that it does.

Though I'm nervous about what this means moving forward, I find comfort in the fact that I feel more at peace spiritually than I ever have. The inner turmoil, the painful battle I've waged within myself over the years has quieted...and I think I finally understand what it means to have faith.

Via