Faith Factor

Nearly four years after joining Episcopal Church of the Messiah in downtown Santa Ana, California, I felt almost like a full-fledged member—emphasis on almost.

I attended every Sunday, happily settling into the all-redwood sanctuary built more than a century before. I baked and brought food for coffee hour, hosted small group dinners and went to classes. I drove elderly members on errands and served as clerk to the vestry.

The only thing I didn’t do? Believe in God. Well, I sort of believed in God. I wanted to believe in God. But I wasn’t exactly sure what I believed. About a lot of things. Including myself.

When I’d stumbled upon Messiah while writing a story for the Orange County Register, where I was a reporter, I’d been a devout skeptic. Something about the church had moved me, though, especially the rector, Father Brad.

He was conducting a memorial service for a homeless woman. He’d opened the church to all the woman’s friends, most homeless themselves. He made a point of hugging and talking to each one. It made an impression on me.

I began attending, and in the years that followed, my life changed almost unimaginably. Overweight since childhood, I had surgery and lost 210 pounds. My husband, severely disabled by a stroke, died, ending decades of caregiving. I neared retirement age. My older son got married, moved to New York and had a baby. My younger son graduated from college and launched his career.

You’d think such changes would have strengthened whatever spark of faith drew me to Messiah. And they did—to a degree. Still, as I neared my four-year anniversary at the church, I remained unsure about myself and my beliefs.

All my life I’d been defined by need. My husband needed care, so I cared for him. My boys needed me. I needed to make people accept me, an overweight woman, so I bent and contorted myself whichever way they wanted. Robin the Rescuer, I called myself, always there to do whatever people needed, whatever would make them glad to have me around.