“Even if you can’t see the entire stairs, faith is taking the first step.” ~Martin Luther King Jr.
My grandmother passed away a few years ago after a long battle with cancer. Even if her health deteriorated, she never lost her spirit. She was still excited that the Pittsburgh Steelers might finally have a decent season after Ben Roethlisberger’s retirement. She discussed the pirate’s chances with passionate optimism that only comes from decades of faithful disappointment.
But what I remember most is the afternoon when she naps in her favourite chair with my son. He drifted by clutching and clenching some random objects, like wooden spoons and random toys from my parents’ basement. She just smiled and closed her eyes. Even when she was tired, and even when the treatment was wearing her, she found joy at those stolen moments.
In her last year she lived with my parents, but she brought her faith.
Her rosary beads found a new home on the nightstands and windowsills. Her worn Bible was open to the end table with her husband’s photographs. Her was also followed by a small angel-filled cabinet of treatment. Wherever she was, the air around her carried the same indeterminate quality that I later noticed later.
My grandmother had a faith that could separate the emotional storm at a glance. She didn’t need to preach that. She lived it. You could feel her belief before you walked through the entrance. She believed in prayer, miracles, second chance. With the Steelers. And then Pepsi on a diet.
I was hoping that after she was gone I would feel completely ignored. Instead, I discovered something amazing. Things seemed to be coming together. The sadness was genuine and profound, but beneath it was solid. The foundation that I didn’t realize she had built me.
My mother always said, “I lived my head in the clouds,” but it wasn’t until she passed by that she realized where her grandma came from. I grew up in the Catholic Church and spent years as an altar boy, but my faith was always more vague than her. It’s not very certain. More questions than answers.
But it was hidden beneath the surface thanks to her. I was benefiting from her quiet influence in a way that I didn’t fully understand or appreciate until she was gone. Her faith did not surround me. Even when I wasn’t paying attention, it somehow took root in me.
Learn to recognize what was already there
A few months after her death, I wasn’t filled with the existential crisis I had thought. Instead, I realized I was aware of things. A way of naturally searching for good in difficult situations. How did I hold on hope even when Logic proposed it differently? How did you move the world with a kind of quiet optimism that I have never really considered?
I was still a professional oversinker, but I was still worried about carrying the cards. But under all of that mental noise there was something more stable. Even if I hadn’t thought about it consciously, I would whisper, “I’ll pass this too.”
It took me a while to realize that this is not something I need to build from scratch. Grandma didn’t just model faith for me. She was always quietly raising it inside me. Through her examples, through her presence, through countless afternoons where she can choose hope over fear, even as odds piled up against her health and her beloved sports team.
I’ll discover a nasty version of myself
What I noticed was that my faith never looked like a grandma. She was rooted in tradition, rituals, in the comfort of prayer centuries ago. The mines were more scattered and rounded together from a variety of sources and experiences.
My faith I discovered is bound together with hope, healthy skepticism, and about six different sticky notes. It’s not a neat, organized kind. It’s like a spiritual junk drawer full of useful things, but you’re not entirely sure where something is.
I believe in a second chance and a fresh start. I believe that the power of the afternoon sun will reset all day long. Kindness is contagious, and sometimes the universe sends exactly what you need, arrives with cat hair, and even if confused and covered, exactly what you need.
One day, my faith is whispers. Other days, it’s bigger: “This is difficult, but I can handle the difficult thing. I’ve done it before.”
My faith doesn’t look like a grandma, but it carries her DNA. It’s more troublesome and less certain, but even when hope looks stupid, it refuses to give up on the same stubborn core, hope.
The science of belief
Here’s what I want to know during these dark months. You don’t have to be religious to benefit from faith. Science shows that belief in something bigger than you can be a powerful tool for mental and emotional well-being.
Faith literally reduces stress. Research shows that people who report strong sense of meaning or mental beliefs have lower levels of cortisol, a stress-related hormone. translation? Faith helps your brain pump the brakes in panic.
It improves emotional regulation by activating the prefrontal cortex of the brain. It builds psychological resilience by reminding you that you are not at the heart of all catastrophes. Whether you believe in God, the universe, karma, or cosmic duct tapes, faith serves as a buffer against despair.
The act of mental reflexes can cause the same brain regions involved in feelings of safety and joy. And faith often leads to rituals and conversations with others, creating connections that are important for happiness.
This is the kicker: you don’t need to get it right. Wobble faith is important. Uncertainly, whispering faith is still valid. The half-hearted tweets “Now, the universe, I trust you…here” are welcome here.
The power of small faith
Major change feels great in theory, but it’s actually difficult. That’s why I learned to embrace what is called “microfushi”. This is these small digestible moments of intentional belief. Like an appetizer for your spirit.
Today, trust the little things:
Possibility of a good coffee The fact that the strength hidden within your own strange little mind may already be on the path, the idea that this difficult season will not last forever and ever, may feel a little lighter tomorrow
Faith doesn’t have to shine even if it is grand. Anyway, sometimes it appears.
What Grandma told me
A few years later I realized that my grandma wasn’t just giving me faith. She taught me how to live it. She taught me that faith is not all the answers. It’s about trusting you to find your way, even in the darkness.
She taught me that beliefs are quiet and yet powerful. That faith is not a destination, it is a fellow traveler. Sometimes the deepest act of faith is simply to rise up and try again.
Most importantly, she taught me that faith is not about perfection. It is to appear. Even if you feel you are not fully prepared, show up in your life, your relationships, your own healing.
I am now carrying pieces of her faith with me, mixed with my own nasty and incomplete beliefs. One day, I feel like I’m floating in the clouds with my head in my mind. But thanks to my grandma and a lot of trial and error, I learned to float here without frying completely into the sun.
If you feel that your faith is broken, blurred, or faint, you’re not wrong. You are just human. Faith is not the finish line. It is a floating device. It doesn’t always pilot you straight, but it may keep you on water long enough to find the shore.
So go ahead and believe in something today. Even if it’s the idea that the clouds will eventually be cleared…and this time the coffee won’t burn.
About Jason Hall
Jason Hall is a writer, a mental wellness advocate, and a professional oversinker who believes in imperfect faith, timing jokes and the epiphany of occasional snack fuel. He writes about finding light in the middle of a messy life and finding the little stubborn joys that help us float. He can find him at chilltheduckout.com. There, they share stories about stress, hope, growth, and how to dye one microjoy into a duck at a time.
