The Faith That Carried Me

I've noticed something that keeps happening as I get older.

Every once in a while, I'll look back on a season of my life that felt impossible while I was living it.

Not just difficult.

Impossible.

The kind of season where you honestly don't know how you're going to make it through another week, let alone another year.

And every single time, I end up asking myself the same question.

Not, Why did that happen?

Not even, Why was it so hard?

It's something much simpler.

That question has been following me around for a while now.

Because the honest answer is...

I don't always know.

I remember pieces of those seasons.

Hospital rooms.

Phone calls.

Long drives.

Parking lots.

The feeling of waking up already exhausted before the day had even started.

I remember wondering how much longer I could keep carrying whatever life was asking me to carry.

What I don't remember is making some big decision to be strong.

I don't remember waking up one morning suddenly filled with courage.

I don't remember some movie moment where everything finally made sense.

I just remember...

continuing.

The more I think about that, the stranger it feels.

Because I don't actually think I carried myself through all of it.

At least...

not by myself.

And I don't know exactly what I mean by that yet.

That's why I keep thinking about it.

For some people, I know exactly what the answer is.

They'll tell you it was God.

Without hesitation.

It was faith.

It was prayer.

It was knowing that even when everything around them felt uncertain, they weren't walking through it alone.

I would never want to take that certainty away from someone.

But I also don't think that's the whole story.

Because I've met people whose faith looked different.

Sometimes it was a grandmother who never stopped praying.

Sometimes it was a husband who quietly kept believing until his wife could believe again.

Sometimes it was a friend who kept showing up long after everyone else became uncomfortable with how long the grief was lasting.

Sometimes it was a parent who kept answering the phone.

Sometimes it was a mentor who saw something worth fighting for before you did.

Sometimes it was a child who still needed breakfast the next morning.

Sometimes it was the responsibility of feeding the dog.

Sometimes it was one person who quietly refused to believe your story was over.

And sometimes...

I honestly think it was something we still don't have words for.

That's the part that won't leave me alone.

Not because I need everything to stay mysterious.

Because I think some of the strongest things in our lives are.

We don't always know who was praying for us.

We don't always know who kept saying our name after we left the room.

We don't always know who stayed awake worrying.

Who kept checking their phone one more time before going to bed.

Who quietly refused to give up on us without ever telling us they had made that decision.

Sometimes the things carrying us are happening completely outside our awareness.

I've started wondering how many lives have been changed by things the person being carried never even knew were happening.

How many prayers were answered before the person knew someone had been praying.

How many conversations took place in rooms they were never in.

How many people quietly decided...

...without ever saying those words out loud.

I don't think we talk about borrowed strength very often.

We celebrate inner strength.

And we should.

But I don't think all strength begins inside us.

Sometimes it arrives through someone else.

Someone else's hope becomes enough for today.

Someone else's belief becomes enough until ours returns.

Someone else's steadiness becomes the thing keeping us from drifting completely away.

That doesn't make our survival less real.

If anything, I think it makes it more human.

Maybe we've spent so much time celebrating the people who stood back up on their own that we've forgotten how many people only stood because someone else quietly held them until they could.

The older I get, the more grateful I become for the people who carried things I never even knew they were carrying.

The encouragement that arrived on exactly the right day.

The kindness that seemed ordinary until years later, when I realized how badly I had needed it.

The grace I didn't recognize while I was living inside it.

The hope I borrowed.

The belief that stayed when mine disappeared.

I used to think being carried meant someone had rescued you.

I don't think that's what it means anymore.

I think being carried is often much quieter than that.

It's someone helping keep you connected to your own life until you can feel it again.

They don't walk every step for you.

They can't.

But somehow they keep the road from disappearing completely.

And maybe that's why certain people never really leave us.

Because what they carried eventually becomes something we begin carrying ourselves.

Their words become the way we speak to ourselves.

Their belief becomes courage we didn't know we had borrowed.

Their steadiness becomes something we offer another person years later, often without even realizing where we first learned it.

Maybe that's one of the quietest forms of legacy.

Someone carries you.

Then one day...

without planning to...

you become someone carrying another person.

I don't think this is really about religion.

Religion is part of some people's story.

Faith in God is the center of some people's story.

Prayer is the center of some people's story.

But I think the deeper question belongs to all of us.

What kept moving toward you when you had stopped moving toward anything?

What refused to leave when everything else seemed to?

Maybe it was faith.

Maybe it was hope.

Maybe it was grace.

Maybe it was love.

Maybe it was one person who refused to believe your story was over.

Maybe it was something you still can't fully explain.

Whatever it was...

I don't think looking back and admitting that we didn't survive everything alone takes anything away from us.

I think it tells a more honest story.

There were seasons when I had no answers.

There were seasons when I had no strength.

There were seasons when I couldn't see a way forward.

And somehow...

something kept meeting me there.

Sometimes it looked like faith.

Sometimes it looked like another person.

Sometimes it looked like one more morning arriving before I had decided whether I was ready for it.

I don't know if we always recognize what carries us while it's happening.

Maybe we aren't supposed to.

Maybe some things only become visible once we're finally strong enough to turn around and look at the road behind us.

Then we see them.

The person who stayed.

The hope we borrowed.

The prayer we never heard.

The light someone quietly kept on.

The strength that didn't begin inside us...

but somehow became part of us anyway.

And maybe...

that's what I've been trying to understand all along.