Growing Stronger

I grew up in Thunder Bay, Ont., surrounded by Christian values on both sides of the family and attending a large Presbyterian church in Fort William. My grandfather was an active session member. Both my grandmothers were strong in their faith. My parents struggled most weeks getting us dressed and into the car for that long 15-minute drive downtown. I knew that we were Presbyterian Christians and Sunday attendance was what we did. I was in the junior choir, was confirmed at 14 with many other kids, and knew and understood the Christian story well. Saying a prayer when times were tough was something I did regularly. We said blessings at the dinner table and at bedtime—a fairly automatic part of our daily routine.

But Christianity was never something anyone talked about outside of the family. Many of my friends went to one church or another but it wasn’t cool and certainly wasn’t something kids would ever talk about, except for the Catholic kids who could go skiing on Sunday morning because their families were lucky enough to go to church on Saturday.

As I went through university, personal prayer remained a part of me, but I had little exposure to other practicing Christians. My friends were all from Christian backgrounds but they never went to church. For me, a shy kid, going to church alone was a terrifying thought.

In 1999, married, and after building a house in Pefferlaw and moving to Georgina, my mom mentioned this little church of 20 people she had attended a few times in the Ice Palace. I thought she was absolutely crazy! Church in a hockey arena? Not my way of thinking about a church. But I went because she asked me and I guess I’ve been there ever since.

Why then, given my background, do I find faith so hard? Those who know me can attest that I’ve always been a thinker and by extension a worrier. I struggle when I don’t understand something. The lyrics of one of my favourite U2 songs (from back in my university days) still resonates. It says:

“I believe in the Kingdom Come / When all the colours will bleed into one / Bleed into one. / But yes, I’m still running. / You broke the bonds / And you loosed the chains / Carried the cross of all my shame / Of all my shame, you know I believe it.”

I know what Bono means. Faith is hard for me because I don’t have all the answers I seek. It ebbs and flows. Sometimes I’m solid as a rock, other times, well maybe not so much. While prayer is part of my life, sometimes it only goes like this: “God, be with me. I know I said this yesterday but please help me get through this day today.” But as I tell my kids, you won’t find what you are looking for unless you actually go searching for it.

So I search and think and read and look for answers. It’s tough to be a Christian in an increasingly secular world. Like any parent with teenagers who would rather stay in bed on a Sunday morning like their friends, or say, “Why can’t we be like normal kids and have an easy Sunday?” I pray for the strength and wisdom to guide us all to church yet again. In truth, coming to church not only connects me to God, but also reminds me of the journey towards that strong faith I so desire. You know, that all-knowing feeling that Jesus is right beside me, always.

But as I ponder how to tell my faith story, it dawns on me that maybe I need to remind myself of the times in my life that I couldn’t easily explain the outcome other than, maybe God’s been there all along. So I remembered …

That I was once a terrified 14-year-old praying for help on a spring day in 1985 as I lay in a bed staring out a window at a tree. And I remembered the comfort I felt and the fear that subsided when that small bird appeared to be watching me from that tree while the surgeons at Sick Kids prepped me for open-heart surgery.

That I’ve sensed a presence and help getting through uncertain times like that winter day in 1993, when the sun warmed my face and eased my nervousness as I sat in the doctor’s office, waiting to hear if those transfusions during heart surgery had given me that strange new virus called HIV. (They did not.)

That I was once a young father, with a wife and two babies at home in Pefferlaw, praying in desperation from a GO Bus on the 400, that somehow, someway, I could be relieved of the punishing commute that had lengthened from one hour to two-and-a-half hours and was pushing me to exhaustion. And that unexpected job offer that came a few months later out of nowhere.
That I felt like a nervous little kid when I joined that small group in the church in 2007. That experience would eventually give me the courage to say grace at dinner when non-Christian friends and family would visit our home.

And finally, that unexpected call just a few days before Christmas 2009, that would relieve Melinda and me from the torture of a bad business venture that had pushed us both to the point of mental and financial collapse.

So as I continue to learn and grow, maybe I need to remember a bit more. Please keep helping me. Maybe the faith I seek is closer than I think.