From Doubt to Devotion

I spent my teens daring God to prove He was real. This is how I ended up praying anyway, what heartbreak had to do with it, and what love turned out to mean.

I didn’t believe in God. For most of my teens I wasn’t even politely agnostic about it. I rejected Him, and I was angry at anyone who didn’t.

I’m writing this down because I keep telling the story in pieces, to one person at a time, and I’d rather have it in one place.

Where I started

If you had told my teenage self that one day I’d be writing about God, I’d have laughed, or picked a fight. I felt misunderstood, depressed, and disconnected from everyone. I prayed to die once. Not because I thought anyone was listening, but to prove to myself that no one was. That was the whole experiment: If You’re real, do something.

Silence was the answer. Or that’s how I read it.

Cracks

Years later, somewhere between the misery I’d made for myself and a family that kept loving me anyway, something shifted. I’ll be honest about this part, because leaving it out would make the story cleaner than it was: psychedelics were part of it. Those experiences peeled back a layer I didn’t know existed. They hinted at something beyond the material, something intelligent, something that felt like it loved me. For the first time I wondered if there was more. Maybe, maybe, God was real.

That happened before I opened a Bible or set foot in a church. My relationship with God started outside of structure or doctrine. Raw, unfiltered, and mine.

I don’t think of psychedelics as a shortcut to faith, and I wouldn’t tell anyone they need them. They were simply part of my story, and I had people around me who cared. That mattered more than the substance did.

The first prayer that was really a prayer

Fast-forward to one of the hardest seasons I’ve lived through. I’d been in a situationship with someone I truly loved, and I made mistakes that broke it past repair. When the truth came out, it crushed me.

I was drowning in that when Bre, walking the dog with me, said something simple: “Just talk to Him. Ask Him for the truth.”

So I did. Out loud, on purpose, for the first time. I asked for peace, for clarity, for love. Nothing dramatic happened. No lightning. More like a steady warmth that didn’t leave when I stopped talking.

That night I forgave Jasmine. I saw her pain and wanted good for her, even if that good didn’t include me. That wasn’t me. I didn’t have that in me. It was the first thing I could point to and say: something is working on my heart.

What love turned out to mean

Prayer didn’t make me a better talker. It made me a better doer. I used to think love was how someone made you feel. What I learned is that love is what you do.

Love is folding towels for my mom because I care. Love is helping my dad pick a shirt because he asked. Love is listening to Therese when I don’t fully get it, because it matters to her. Love is quitting a job and driving a friend two states away so he can be the dad he’s meant to be.

Love is sacrifice. God’s love is like that: limitless, patient, and often uncomfortable. He gives what we need, not what we want. Sometimes that’s heartbreak. Sometimes it’s waiting. I’ve stopped pretending I like it. I’ve started believing it’s for my good.

Bigger circles

There’s a kind of love that draws circles to keep people out. God draws bigger circles.

If you’re transgender, gay, straight, questioning, neurodivergent, odd, loud, quiet, whoever you are: God’s love isn’t rationed. You aren’t an exception. I don’t have the theology sorted, and I’ve stopped pretending I do. What I have is pretty simple. Your worth isn’t up for debate. People grow when they’re loved, not when they’re shamed. And when I’m tempted to police someone else’s story, I remember how patient God has been with mine.

That’s how Jesus loved people who didn’t fit. I’d like to be that kind of person.

Jesus, and where I actually am

I used to respect Jesus as history. I’ve come to know Him as a living invitation. “Only through Christ” used to sound like a membership card to me. Now it reads like a path: compassion, humility, sacrificial love.

Am I fully Christian? I’m still working that out, and I’d rather say so than fake it. But I know this: when I was lonely and adrift, I prayed for a partner. God answered. Therese is everything I prayed for. Compassionate, wise, strong, loving. She carries the best of the women who came before her, and they helped shape me into someone who could love her well.

What I actually do

None of this is a program. It’s just what keeps me from drifting.

A few minutes of prayer a day, out loud or in a journal. Thank You, I’m sorry, please. Then I shut up and listen.

One small, concrete thing for someone close to me. Every day if I can manage it.

Scripture in small doses. A chapter of a Gospel, one thing I noticed, one thing I’ll do about it.

Two minutes of quiet with no phone. Name what I’m feeling. Hand it over.

Once a week, looking back: where did I resist love, where did I receive it, what changes.

Some weeks I do all of it. Some weeks I do almost none of it. I come back.

Suffering, waiting

God didn’t remove the hard things. He taught me to walk differently through them. The answers were slow. The healing was slower. But love, His love, gave me legs when I couldn’t stand on my own.

I started this story praying to die. These days I pray to live, and to love the way I’ve been loved.