My children once asked me why I believe in God.
They were raised to question everything and assume nothing—a trait that annoyed me when they were younger, but inspires me now.
I didn’t grow up in the church. Over the years, I’ve heard Spelman sisters, colleagues, sorority sisters, and clients speak about long days sitting in pews, begging for butterscotch candy from their seat-mate’s purse bounty, being read the gospel at their grandmother’s knee…attending vacation bible school every summer and children’s bible study every Sunday.
They say they met their first friends at church. That they were nurtured by a community of elders who served as surrogate parents and aunts and uncles. That they prayed before every meal and every night as they prepared for bed. They say this belief—that there is a God who loves them and watches over them and orders their steps—has been the foundation of their comfort and confidence for as long as they can remember. That they have never doubted, through storms and loss and setbacks, that God would provide.
As a child, my brush with faith was brief and complicated. The local Catholic church where I grew up refused to bury my paternal grandfather because he’d been divorced, and my father held this against them—the priests who ordered it and the principles on which their decision stood. My maternal grandmother used to pray the rosaries with me, but I was more interested in the beads and poeticism than the meaning of either.
I was a senior in high school when I had my first personal encounter with God. My best friend invited me to a small service on her college campus where fifteen or so had gathered to praise and worship. I went not because I felt compelled, but because she invited me. In a series of events that are fuzzy now, I was brought to my knees. The best way to describe the impact of this experience is that I felt less alone. Less unwanted. Less unseen. More held. More purposed. I felt part of something greater, and I wanted to continue feeling that way. In the years that followed, I called myself Christian and had moments of extreme closeness with God. I also had disassociated moments. But even when I felt far from the systems that purported to uphold Christianity, I still believed there was a God.
It wasn’t until I went through a painful divorce, followed by complete restoration, that I understood first-hand the reality of divine orchestration. The “God-winks” were undeniable.
In late 2007, I attended a sister circle where one member shared a prayer that changed everything for her:
“Dear God, please remove from me any person, place, or thing that is not part of your divine plan for my life. And God, please bring unto me any person, place, or thing that is part of your divine plan for my life.”
She warned us not to pray this prayer until we were ready for things to fall apart. She explained how everyone she knew who prayed it went through a painful transformation process, but was exceedingly blessed on the other side. I was already miserable. I knew it was a prayer I should pray, but a few days passed before I spoke those words. I had to gather my courage first.
In a matter of weeks, my first marriage descended into chaos.
But God!
God winked when I discovered the truths that freed me.
God winked when a preacher on television spoke the words that gave me the courage to stay free.
God winked when I received a bonus the exact amount of my marital debt, days after I fell to my knees crying out for help.
God winked when a friend suggested I write a letter asking for what I wanted in a husband, and God winked when John showed up.
God winked when, because it was the Saturday of all our children’s spring breaks in different cities, I married John on 3:16…For God so loved the world.
God winked when the job I left became the business I built.
God keeps winking at me—in every moment of protection, overcoming, understanding, abundance, and peace amid overwhelming unrest. Now, when anyone asks me why I believe, the answer is simple:
I have seen the goodness of God.
Resurrection is more than a storied moment in Christian history. It is an illustration of how seemingly dead things can live again. How darkness can become light. How, just when you think a thing is gone for good, a new thing can show up. And that you can—we can—experience peace and abundance beyond what we think or imagine.
My Easter prayer for you, no matter what you believe, is that you hold fast to hope that grace and joy and new life are available to you, not because you’ve earned it, but because you are loved. Just as you are. And because you are before the world.
With love,
Tara Jaye Frank
