I never thought in a million years that at age 18 I would be wearing my mother around my neck, her ashes residing in a tiny case as a reminder of what I used to have. It can be very hard to believe in God. If he is real, he gave my mother cancer and let her die. He took her away from me — let her deteriorate right in front of my eyes because of that horrid disease. He left my family and me to stand without her, leaving our hearts feeling empty. So, why would a god who is so great use his power to hurt my family? I am angry beyond belief and I am confused to no end — but I still maintain my faith.

Faith is a tricky concept. It’s scary. Faith requires believing in something that you have no proof is real — it’s gambling. Sometimes it drags you through the dirt and grime of life, but it also allows you to hold on until a brighter tomorrow.

If I had to label myself, I would say I am an ex-Catholic who dabbled in Christianity and took what she wanted from it to create a vision of the higher power she believes in — simple, right?

That’s the thing though, religion isn’t simple. It’s not black and white, there is more of a fluidity to it. I do believe in God, but I believe that the Bible is metaphorical and things were not meant to be taken literally. Personally, I believe if you do take them literally you would be practicing hypocrisy instead of Christianity.

I wasn’t brought up in a religious home, but we all had faith. We only went to church when we had to support a family member for their communion or confirmation. We never took it seriously though, giggling through it and poking fun at the “1984” vibes we would get from the repetition and the synchronized sitting and standing. The Catholic Church wasn’t for us, but our home was our church.

When my mom was diagnosed with cancer I started going to a non-denominational Christian church. I thought that maybe He would listen to me better if I worshiped in His home — but He didn’t intervene.

I begged on my knees and was willing to sacrifice anything to help her survive. I would read stories about people with stage four colon cancer who were miraculously healed and felt a sort of jealousy and betrayal. He gave them a miracle, why not us? I had been trying to live by his ways, and made an effort to reevaluate my liberal views to fit the Bible, but I realized I was doing it all wrong.

I found God in my own way, and it ironically happened when I stopped going to church. When I stopped allowing messages to be forced into my mind and took what I wanted from them I gained something I had not felt before — trust that God knew what he was doing. Trust that the nightmare I was going through was happening for a reason.

I believe religion is sort of a coping mechanism — a way to deal with death — for me at least. A way to maintain hope that we will see our loved ones again after they die. It seems silly to me not to believe in something that makes the harsh realities of life easier to deal with. If I am wrong about God existing and an afterlife being real, I will never know. Nobody will be there to tell me I’m wrong if I am six feet under and my soul doesn’t travel up above. But if I am right, I will know, and be rewarded for my trust.

I always have my doubts, though. To be honest, I can name more reasons why God doesn’t exist than reasons why he does. Despite all of my doubts, the ending of my mother’s life helps me to believe.

We knew her death was coming so we knew it was time to have a family talk. My brother, my dad, and I sat around her hospital bed in our living room and started talking to her like she could hear and comprehend every word. Though the morphine she was on made her tired, we were certain she could understand us. She could respond back to us in fragments with her eyes closed, but we were happy with that. Then, all of the sudden her eyes shot wide open and she looked at me and said “There is somebody behind you.” I looked back in astonishment to find that the space behind me was empty.

My dad asked her a list of yes or no questions to grasp what he looked like and concluded the ‘invisible person’ looked like her father, who had passed when she was eight. The next day the extended family came over to say their goodbyes. She passed the day after that. I believe it was her father behind me that night, coming down from heaven to escort her back up but waited until his sons and widowed wife could say goodbye. So yes, I firmly believe in God, and I thank him every day for sending her father to bring her to her eternal home.