Over the weekend, some serious roadwork was accomplished without my consent. The area where Abernathy and Johnson Ferry Roads meet has been ablaze with orange cones for awhile now, and I thought they were just adding a couple of lanes. But as the CRV and I chugged along the pavement this morning, I felt an alarm go off in my head when my usual right-hand stoplight turn morphed into a long, lightless curve and I wondered if I had fallen asleep at the wheel. Had I missed the turn? For a couple of slow-motion seconds, I was completely disoriented. Then I looked up at the landmarks I know, the buildings I pass daily–and their presence told me to keep going. And soon enough I was deposited in exactly the right spot, headed north on Johnson Ferry. Right-hand turn no longer necessary.

The thing is, I’ve missed turns before. I’ve had hours added to trips, detours I did not pre-approve and was none too happy about. As a person for whom belief comes naturally–whose journey of faith has looked more like a curve than a turn, who grew up hearing about Jesus, who never suffered outrageous mistreatment at the hands of people who call themselves Christians–God has always been there, whether as a recipient of my praise or misplaced anger. When bad things happened, I always had someone to look to–and blame. Whenever I was diverted from my self-ordained course, whether in my car or in my life, I beat my hands on the steering wheel or clenched my fists and felt the anger rise, the frustration fill, and I looked accusingly at everyone else but in the deepest part of my heart I cursed God. I secretly thought the same of him that so many of my searching counterparts do: that he was Up There, out of touch and uncaring, spinning a wheel and deciding my life and changing my plans, remaining uninvolved Down Here as my heart broke and I crumbled.

The problem was never that I didn’t believe in him; I just couldn’t reconcile the things I heard about him with everything I could see around me.

And then, as the pain grew deeper and the way darker, all the words I heard from others grew more trite. God was letting this happen to test my faith? Great, so he’s Up There watching me, hamster in a cage, stumble through a funhouse of his making just to make me believe more? Or how about this one–that wrapped within every period of suffering is a lesson? So he’s a divine schoolteacher, rapping me on the knuckles so that next time I’ll get the right answer?

The God I heard about in others’ simple answers and quaint cliches sounded like a sadistic jerk. And did nothing to make my heart feel understood, or less alone.

I would do well to remember that: just like I didn’t find him in catchphrases and cure-alls, neither will others. I had to slog through the trenches of life, my hidden corners and dark depths, to know who he really is. To find that there are not always simple answers when it comes to faith. It lies in story, and we each have our own. And the story must be lived.

Last weekend I had some back-and-forth over this topic with one of the dearest people in my life. I thought about what my contribution to the conversation would have looked like six years ago, before my plan fell apart and I found truth in the rubble. It would not have looked like empathy; it would have looked like self-righteousness. It would have held more “This is how it is” moments and less “I don’t know”s. It would have been a list devoid of mystery, not a narrative full of twists.

I inherited a faith passed down through countless generations and mishandled along the way. For so long, I asked no questions of it, just grew more frustrated with my own doubts. I walked blindly down a path of my own making and called it His for years before things came to a head and I realized that the word I was using didn’t mean what I thought it meant–what I called Faith was just Religion, a self-improvement program full of props to make me feel better than other people. The faith I found on the streets of New York, in particular 69th between Park and Lex, quieted my efforts and replaced my pat answers with paradoxical, counter-intuitive truth. True faith will always be, in our own estimation, somewhat blind because the Almighty doesn’t tell us everything yet. But the vision opened to us when we unclench our fists and open our hands is beyond comfort or morals or lessons; it blows self-sufficiency out of the water and releases us from the burden of being our own gods. Not having all the answers is no longer a liability but an invitation into relationship. Into a story.

So many people object to my faith because they have been offended by it or its representatives. I have been offended, too–there are a lot of jerks out there operating under false identities (you can count yours truly among their former ranks).  But the greatest offense was delivered by the Gospel itself, which told me that everything wasn’t about me. And as long as I saw my place as a piece on a chessboard moved around for God’s amusement, I would have remained defiant. Instead, I know I have been written into a narrative of which my story is a tiny but imperative part.

I used to wonder where all the miracles were; why God no longer shows up in parting seas and water turned to wine. My life of religion was me standing in front of a bottle of Poland Spring, waiting for it to turn red if I prayed hard enough. These days I just head straight to Total Wine for my pinot noir, because my life is already full of miracles that only touch my consciousness because my eyes have been opened to see them. Storms that upend my carefully laid plans and in their seeming disorder create beauty beyond what I could have imagined; calm that pervades my soul in the midst of a world gone mad. I don’t have all the answers, but every day I find that what I do have is more than enough.