Leap of Faith

Welcome back, inspiring and brilliant minds!

Every now and then, life presents a quiet moment—a subtle nudge—that calls for reflection. And when it does, I listen.

So today, I’m choosing to open a conversation I’ve long kept within. This post is part of the Eternity series, a journey through the timeless threads that connect us all—love, loss, legacy, and now, faith.

Whether your beliefs are firmly rooted or still unfolding, whether you name the divine or simply acknowledge the mystery, I invite you to pause here with me. Let’s explore not just faith in a higher power, but faith in the unseen, the unfolding, and the enduring.

Faith in the Unseen: Trusting the Timeless

Faith, in its essence, is not a rigid doctrine or a one-size-fits-all concept. It’s not confined to temples or texts or traditions, though it may reside there for some. For others, it’s the quiet resilience that keeps us going when everything seems to fall apart. It’s the invisible thread that pulls us through grief, heartbreak, or uncertainty—even when logic gives us no reason to move forward.

In this way, faith is deeply personal, yet somehow universal.

When I speak of faith, I don't mean to define it for you. I mean only to share a lens—one shaped not by certainty, but by wonder. I’ve come to believe that faith is not the opposite of doubt, but the companion of it. It walks alongside our questions and grows in the spaces where we dare to trust without proof.

For some, this faith is rooted in a divine presence. For others, it might be in the enduring nature of love, the resilience of the human spirit, or the natural rhythms of life and death. Whatever shape it takes, it asks something profound of us: to believe in what we cannot see, to trust what we cannot control, and to surrender to something larger than our own understanding.

Why Speak Now?

You might ask, why bring this up now? And to that, I’d say—because silence can sometimes be mistaken for absence. And while I’ve long felt that faith is something to be lived, not spoken, there’s also power in the sharing. Especially in a time when so many are searching for meaning, for hope, for something deeper than the noise.

This is not a post to convert or convince. It’s a space to contemplate. A gentle nudge, if you will, to consider where you place your trust when the ground beneath you shifts. It’s an invitation to explore what faith might mean in your life—not according to anyone else's definitions, but your own.

An Open Reflection

So I offer this: Have you ever trusted something without evidence? Have you ever felt guided without knowing why? Have you ever held on—not because you knew you would be okay, but because something in you refused to let go?

That, too, is faith.

And whether yours is found in God, the universe, the love of another human being, or simply the sunrise after a long night—may you hold it close. May it be enough to carry you, even just for today.

A Foundation Laid in Silence

While I was born into a life of faith, I’ve come to understand that faith isn’t something you simply inherit—it’s something you live into, one quiet moment at a time.

Mine began, quite literally, before I could speak. I was baptized as a baby, initiated into a spiritual lineage long before I could articulate belief. As I grew, I naturally followed the rhythm my parents set: church on Sundays and holidays, Bible School in the summers, prayers before every meal. At the time, these rituals felt more like tradition than conviction—an environment I stepped into rather than a belief system I consciously chose.

And yet, even in that repetition, something deeper was forming. A subtle knowing. A quiet sense of belonging to something greater.

Faith in those early years wasn’t loud. It wasn’t intellectual or dramatic. It was simple, steady, and gently woven into the ordinary. Our mealtime prayers—hands intertwined, heads bowed—weren’t just about the food. They were moments of pause. Of presence. Of acknowledging the sacred in the simple. Looking back, I see now that those prayers were never just words. They were seeds—seeds of trust, reverence, and relationship. Even when I didn’t fully understand, I was learning to believe.

A Life of Contrasts and Continuity

Coming from a divorced family, my spiritual experience was anything but uniform. With my mom, church meant familiarity—a small, local congregation deeply rooted in our family’s history. It was the kind of place where generations worshipped side by side, and where my mom, for a time, was even my Sunday school teacher. Holidays often brought us into the warm echo of tradition.

With my dad, faith looked different. We attended larger churches—Willow Creek, Harvest Bible, and others—experiencing faith on a broader, more transient scale. We shifted congregations often, sometimes every few weeks. Just as I’d start to feel connected, we’d move on. It could be disorienting. But in that movement, I learned another side of faith: openness. Adaptability. The ability to find God not in permanence, but in presence—wherever I happened to be.

These contrasting experiences—one grounded in community and continuity, the other fluid and exploratory—shaped me more than I realized. They taught me that faith is not confined to a building or a tradition. It’s something that travels with you, and within you.

Growing in Quiet Strength

As I entered my teenage years, my outward engagement with church lessened. Life became full—school, sports, music, volunteering, friendships. My calendar was busy, and my focus was spread. But my faith? It never disappeared. If anything, it grew deeper.

What I’ve come to realize is that my relationship with God has always been personal. Quiet. Steady. It didn’t demand visibility, only sincerity. And in the moments that mattered most—those filled with uncertainty, heartache, or quiet fear—I didn’t turn away from that faith. I leaned in.

In tearful prayers whispered into pillows, in silent hopes carried through sleepless nights, in moments of solitude where no words were needed—those were the places where my faith took root. Not through ritual, but through relationship. Not through performance, but through presence.

Faith, for me, was never about perfection. It was about returning. Trusting. Listening. It was about knowing that even when the world shifted around me, something sacred remained unmoved.

Quiet Convictions

Throughout my life, I’ve never been loud with my faith. Yes, there were moments when I’d share a verse, a passage, or a quote from a book that moved me—something spiritual that resonated deeply. But for the most part, my relationship with God remained something sacred and internal. It wasn’t hidden, but it wasn’t on display either. I never felt the need to outwardly express it in order for it to be real.

For me, faith has always been about connection.

Over the years, I’ve crossed paths with many people—some who became close friends, others who remained in the outskirts as acquaintances. And at times, I’ve wondered whether they ever knew the spiritual layer of who I am. In fact, some of them may have passed through my life never realizing I was religious or spiritual at all. And that’s okay.

In one of my earlier posts, Different Versions of You, I explored the way we show different parts of ourselves in different relationships. This is one of those parts. Unless someone brings up faith openly—or signals they’re walking a similar path—I tend not to mention it. Not out of fear, but out of care.

Faith can be a tender topic. It holds different meanings for each of us, and it can come with misunderstandings, assumptions, and at times, unnecessary division. I’ve never wanted to be the source of discomfort for someone simply trying to navigate their own beliefs or lack thereof. So I’ve chosen to walk quietly, honoring my own connection without needing others to validate it.

That doesn’t mean I’m silent out of shame or uncertainty. Quite the opposite. My silence has often been a kind of reverence—an honoring of something so deeply personal that it doesn’t require constant expression to be true.

Still, when the space feels right—when someone seems open to the journey, or even simply curious—I’m always willing to share. Not with the expectation that they’ll agree or adopt my view, but with the hope that they’ll feel the sincerity behind it. After all, we don’t need to share the same path to walk together for a while.

Faith, to me, has never been about convincing. It’s about being. About living in alignment with something greater, even when that truth remains unspoken.

Faith in the Face of Diversity

While my consistency in outward practices of faith may have wavered during my teenage years, it was during times of grief and confusion—particularly in college—that my connection with faith grew deeper. The moments when I felt lost or uncertain were often the times I leaned hardest into something greater, even when I wasn’t sure how to put it into words.

Looking back, I can’t help but wonder how my path might have unfolded if I had attended a Christian college—one with specific requirements and ways of living that were perhaps more aligned with the structure I grew up with. I’ll never know that for sure, and while part of me is curious, I am also deeply grateful for the journey I did take.

I attended public school my entire life, including college, and it was in this diverse environment that I was blessed to meet so many incredible people—from a wide range of backgrounds, experiences, and beliefs. It was a place that expanded my worldview, challenged me, and opened my mind in ways I hadn’t expected.

One of the most profound aspects of this experience was encountering people of different faiths. I often think about how my interactions with people shaped my spiritual life. Would I have had the same openness to others if I had attended a Christian college? Would my faith have been as expansive? I don't know. And perhaps that’s a conversation worth having. I’d love to hear your thoughts—please feel free to share in the comments below.

A Moment of Unity

I remember an incident from college that particularly stands out in my memory. I was deeply involved in a campus organization, and at one point, one of the fellow clubs on campus, which represented a different religion, faced some hateful criticism. It was a challenging time for them, and as a leader in my own group, I felt compelled to act.

Without hesitation, I began organizing a surprise gathering—a kind of “potluck” party—to show them we, the other student groups, were there for them, to support them in any way they needed. We wanted to remind them that they mattered to us, that their presence enriched the campus, and that their community was integral to the fabric of our college life.

The event was a success—filled with laughter, food, and a banner that carried messages of support and appreciation. While I won’t share the name of the organization out of respect for their privacy, I’ll always remember how that simple act of kindness and solidarity reminded me of the power of faith in community, in standing together despite differences.

A Personal Connection to Faith Through Others

I’ve also had the privilege of experiencing faith through the eyes of others, even when our beliefs didn’t fully align. In one of my other college experiences, I had three roommates who were religious in their own ways. One of them invited me to attend a gospel congregation with her, and the energy in that church was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The passion, the vibrancy of praise, the palpable love—it was contagious. I left feeling filled with an energy that only reinforced the universal truth that love, no matter the faith, is a powerful force.

For the other roommate, whose faith was different but no less meaningful, invited me to attend weekly church services with her. For my birthday one year, she gave me a Bible—and in it, she had highlighted her favorite passages and written a beautiful note, sharing more thoughts and reflections. The kindness of that gesture, the thoughtfulness behind her gift, still resonates with me to this day. That Bible, now worn with years of use, remains on my shelf—a symbol not just of religious connection, but of the connection we had in sharing our journeys, even when they took different paths.

And finally, I was fortunate to have a roommate whose faith and background were completely different from mine, yet from the start, she welcomed me as part of her community. Despite our religious differences, we connected through a shared love and respect for the sacred, valuing peace, love, and mutual understanding over theological divides. Our conversations were never about convincing each other, but about learning and embracing our differences. Through these dialogues, I discovered that faith doesn't need to look the same to be meaningful. Sometimes, the most profound connections come from simply listening and seeing the divine in someone else's journey, even when it’s different from your own.

The Evolving Thread

While a set of unforeseen circumstances eventually led my mother’s side of the family away from the generational church we had known, we didn’t leave faith behind. What we left was a structure, a place. What we carried forward was something deeper: the thread.

We entered a new chapter—one of searching, of seeking a better fit for where we were in life and in spirit. But the timing was complicated. It was during the pandemic, a season where doors were physically closed, and hearts were carrying an invisible weight. Many churches were limiting visitors, operating under restrictions, or finding their own footing in an uncertain world.

Eventually, we found ourselves at Christ Community Church—a space unfamiliar, yet filled with potential. It was, in many ways, a different experience for us. It’s not an easy thing to describe, but I’ll try.

Within every religion, there are variations—denominations, traditions, expressions. Under the Christian umbrella, for instance, there’s Baptist, Lutheran, Evangelical, and more. Each brings a different rhythm: how scripture is read, how sermons are delivered, how communion is practiced, even the atmosphere of the service itself. Christ Community was a new cadence for us, especially for my mother, who had been shaped by the smaller, more intimate gatherings of our old church.

And yet, for a time, we found comfort there. We stayed for a stretch—participating quietly, observing thoughtfully. It wasn’t quite the same, but it was still sacred in its own way.

A New Kind of Community

During that season, something unexpected happened. I bumped into an old friend in the church lobby. Our conversation was brief but meaningful. When I asked about study groups, she encouraged me to join the one she was part of.

I did—just a handful of times—but those evenings left a lasting mark. That study group gave me a glimpse into what faith-based community looks like in adulthood. It wasn’t like Sunday school. It wasn’t about structure or routine. It was about showing up as you are.

Each person brought their own walk of faith—some full of certainty, others shaped by pain or healing. But no matter where they were on their path, they welcomed me without hesitation. They asked thoughtful questions. They listened without judgment. And, perhaps most meaningfully, they saw me.

At that point in my life, I was carrying more than I was letting on. I was navigating a heavy chapter—one of grief, uncertainty, and quiet questions I hadn’t yet voiced. And somehow, without knowing the specifics, they met me there—with understanding, with compassion, with a presence that felt divinely timed.

The Eternal Thread

That experience reminded me that faith isn’t static. It isn’t just about where we’ve been, but where we are—and where we’re open to going. It moves. It stretches. It shows up in different forms, different faces, and sometimes in unexpected places. The eternal thread of belief doesn’t fray when the familiar changes; it finds new ways to weave through our lives.

And in that way, faith is not just a doctrine—it’s a presence. A presence that walks with us through tradition, through transition, and through transformation.

The Inner Sanctuary

There was a stretch of time when life felt especially full—full of responsibilities, deadlines, emotions, and noise. In that season, finding time to attend church became increasingly difficult. The rhythm I had once known gave way to a different kind of pace: chaotic, fast, demanding. But even though I wasn’t stepping into a physical sanctuary as often, I never felt abandoned by faith.

Instead, I found myself stepping inward.

During that time, I leaned more deeply into spirituality—not as a replacement, but as a reminder. A reminder that the sacred is not confined to walls or pews or sermons. It can be found in quiet moments, in whispered prayers, in the way sunlight filters through trees or the way breath slows in stillness.

Spirituality, for me, became a deeply personal connection—one that wove together my relationship with God, with the universe, and with the world around me. It wasn’t about performing faith outwardly. It was about feeling it inwardly. Listening. Trusting. Returning to the present moment, again and again, until I remembered I was never truly lost.

I began to heal in that space. Slowly. Quietly. But deeply.

Nature became my chapel. Journaling became my prayer. Silence became sacred. I found God in places I hadn’t thought to look before—in walks alone, in the moonlight, in unexpected conversations, in dreams that nudged me toward growth.

That season was a transformation. Not a loud, dramatic one—but a soul-deep shift. I came away from it more grounded, more confident, and more whole than I had been before.

Wandering, But Not Lost

After some time, my mom and I continued our search—hoping to find a church that felt more like home, something that echoed the sense of belonging we had once known. But life, as it often does, presented obstacles. For my mom, those obstacles came in the form of personal challenges—physical, emotional, and situational. They made attending services regularly more difficult, and with that, our shared journey took on a more individual rhythm.

During that time, I found myself still yearning for connection—to something grounding, something sacred. I began exploring services—sometimes with extended family, once with a friend. Though it wasn’t yet a consistent pattern, there was something meaningful in those occasional visits. They were small moments of stillness, quiet pauses where I could just be—among others, yet fully with myself.

Eventually, I began tuning into online services—something I never imagined would become part of my spiritual routine. But as the world shifted, so did the ways we engage with faith. I learned that presence doesn’t always require physical proximity. Sometimes, simply showing up in spirit is enough.

In time, my mom and I found what we now lovingly refer to as our “home away from home.” A place that doesn’t just hold the structure of faith, but the feeling. The heart. It may not mirror the generational church we came from, but it holds the same essence: a sense of sacred belonging. And maybe that’s what matters most.

Because as I’ve come to understand it, faith is less about the building, and more about what is built within us.

Full Circle: Faith, Purpose, and the Eternal Thread

Looking back now—with all the variations, pauses, questions, and quiet returns—I see that faith has never left me. It’s simply evolved alongside me. What began as tradition became trust. What once felt inherited has grown into something intentional. And what started in the walls of a church now lives within me, everywhere I go.

Today, my view of faith is less about certainty and more about presence. It's not a list of things I must prove—it's a truth I choose to carry. I believe faith is less about having all the answers and more about holding space for mystery. For wonder. For the sacred possibility in the unknown.

I no longer feel the need to separate my spirituality from the rest of my life. It’s in everything I do—in how I speak to others, how I move through difficult seasons, how I listen, how I create, how I love. Faith, for me, is not a moment. It’s a way of being.

And that way of being has become deeply tied to my purpose.

I used to think purpose was a destination—a grand assignment I needed to figure out and fulfill. But now, I believe it's much simpler, and at the same time, much more profound. My purpose is to live in alignment with the truth I carry. To walk in love. To reflect light. To create spaces where others feel seen, heard, and safe to be themselves—wherever they are on their journey.

Faith taught me that.

It taught me that every connection matters, every story holds weight, and every moment is an opportunity to be present—to be a vessel of grace, compassion, and quiet strength. That’s what I try to embody, whether through my writing, my relationships, or the way I show up for the world.

Because in the end, that’s what the Eternity series has always been about:
The threads that last. The truths that remain. The presence that transcends place, time, and even belief.

So wherever you are—whether rooted in tradition, walking through transition, or quietly rediscovering your connection—I hope you know this:

Faith doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it simply stays.

And in that staying, we find ourselves again.

A Leap of Faith: Embracing Eternity, Purpose, and Everlasting Love

As I reflect on this journey—through the changes, challenges, and moments of quiet introspection—I realize that faith has always been the thread tying everything together. It’s not a static belief, but a living, breathing force that unfolds alongside us. It calls us to take a leap, to trust even when the path isn’t clear, and to believe in something greater than ourselves. That leap of faith is a quiet but profound act, rooted in the recognition that life, like love, doesn’t always follow a linear course. There are twists and turns, seasons of doubt, and moments of clarity—but it’s all part of a greater unfolding.

Eternity, as I see it, isn’t just about a far-off future—it’s about the here and now. It’s in the quiet, everyday moments where we find connection, where we discover meaning, and where we learn to love. It’s in the decisions we make, the trust we extend, and the relationships we nurture. And when we take that leap of faith, when we allow ourselves to embrace the unknown, we step into something timeless. A space where purpose and love converge. A place where we are not bound by the limitations of time, but instead, guided by a love that transcends it.

This love—everlasting, unwavering, and all-encompassing—shapes not only the way we walk through life but the way we face death. It reminds us that even in the moments of loss, in the passing of loved ones, there is a greater purpose that lives on. A legacy that is carried forward—not just through the actions we take, but in the love we give. Every act of kindness, every word of encouragement, every bond of friendship or family, becomes part of the legacy we leave behind. And that legacy is woven into the eternal, passed down through the generations and the lives we touch.

In the end, it is love that binds us, that carries us, and that sustains us. It is love that gives us purpose and meaning in a world that can sometimes feel uncertain. And as we move through life—embracing the beauty and pain, the joys and heartaches, the beginnings and endings—we are reminded that we are all part of something greater. A journey that stretches far beyond this moment, into eternity.

So, as we walk forward, let us carry with us the lessons learned, the love shared, and the faith that has guided us. Let us continue to leap, to trust, and to embrace the unfolding path, knowing that no matter where it leads, we are never truly alone. Our faith, our purpose, and our love transcend time—they endure, and in that, we find our eternal home.

As a signature of my blog, I’d like to end this post with a suggestion to “Pass on kindness.” There’s no time like the present to Inspire Those Who Inspire You. Acts of kindness, no matter how big or small, can have a direct, positive impact on someone else. Go out there today and change someone’s life for the better!

***These are my personal opinions and may not be those of my employer.***