On letting go of the need for answers — and finding something steadier in its place.
There was a time in my life when I wanted answers. Not just any answers — the right answers. The kind that would finally make everything make sense: about God, about suffering, about why prayers seem to land differently for different people. I wanted certainty. What I found, over decades of study, practice, and living, was something I didn’t expect: I found that I no longer need it.
As a psychologist, I spent years studying human behavior, motivation, development, trauma, and healing. As a minister and woman of faith, I spent years studying Scripture, theology, prayer, and the nature of God. I believed that if I read enough, studied enough, prayed enough, and thought deeply enough, eventually I would arrive at a place where everything fit neatly together. Life had other plans.
The older I get, the less certain I become about many things I once thought I understood. Surprisingly, that realization hasn’t weakened my faith. It has deepened it.
For years, I wrestled with the question that haunts many people who have experienced pain, trauma, loss, or injustice: if God is all-powerful and all-loving, why doesn’t He stop terrible things from happening? I heard the traditional answers — “Everything happens for a reason,” “It was God’s will,” “It was part of His plan.” While those explanations brought comfort to some, they never fully satisfied me. In some cases, they created even more questions.
If God is controlling every detail, then did God approve of the abuse? Did God sanction the betrayal? Did God orchestrate the trauma? And if He had the power to stop it but chose not to, what does that mean for those who suffered? I’m not interested in attacking anyone’s beliefs. I’m simply being honest about my own journey.
Over time, I found myself drawn toward a different possibility. What if God is always loving? Not sometimes loving. Not selectively loving. Not choosing favorites. Always loving. What if love is God’s constant posture toward all of creation? What if the world we inhabit is filled with free beings making free choices, and much of the suffering we experience is the result of those choices colliding with one another? I don’t claim to know for certain. But that perspective changed something for me.
Because while I may never fully understand why something happened, I do have agency in how I respond to it. I may not have chosen every circumstance, every wound, every loss. But I can choose whether I heal. I can choose whether I grow. I can choose whether pain becomes my identity or part of my story. That realization feels far more empowering than any explanation I could construct about suffering.
The same evolution has happened with prayer. When I was younger, I often viewed prayer as a conversation designed to persuade God to act. I would ask. I would plead. I would hope. And if the outcome happened, I assumed God had answered. If it didn’t, I assumed He had said no.
Today, I see prayer differently. I’m no longer convinced that prayer is primarily about changing God’s mind. Instead, I wonder if prayer changes us. I wonder if prayer helps align us with love — if it regulates our nervous systems, calms our fears, organizes our thoughts, and focuses our intentions. I wonder if prayer reminds us that we’re not alone. I wonder if it’s less about convincing God to care and more about helping us experience the care that has been available all along.
I think about what happens when someone says, “I’m praying for you.” Whether they are speaking from deep faith, simple compassion, or a desire to help, something meaningful occurs. The person receiving those prayers feels supported, seen, remembered, loved. Hope increases. Isolation decreases. Courage grows. Healing often begins.
We’ve been told that prayer works because it moves the hand of God. I believe it also works because it moves the hearts of people — the one praying and the one being held.
I’m comfortable saying that I don’t fully understand how any of this works. In fact, one of the greatest gifts of aging has been becoming comfortable with not knowing. What matters to me now is something much simpler: Does a belief make me more loving? More compassionate? More responsible for my own healing? Does it help me love God, myself, and other people more fully? If it does, I’m willing to sit with it. If it makes me more fearful, more judgmental, more rigid, or less loving, I’m willing to question it.
These days, I’m less interested in proving that I’m right and more interested in becoming the kind of person who embodies love. That may not be certainty. But it feels like wisdom.
I don’t need certainty anymore. I need alignment with love. Everything else is still unfolding — and I’ve made my peace with that.
