by Megan Schwartz

Created on: June 24, 2008

I've been reading The Life of Pi by Yann Martel this weekend, one of my favorite books of all time. In it, a young man goes through a harrowing journey across the ocean in a life raft, after losing his entire family, kept company only by a Bengal tiger. The main character, Pi, is a man of faith. Some may say he's a man of many faiths, but I think he has only one. Though he celebrates his love of God through many religions, (he is a practicing Christian, Hindu, and Muslim), his faith is neither confused nor splintered. It is, rather, clear, focused, and very beautiful.

I've often had difficulty explaining my faith and beliefs, since they don't fit into the standard mold. I was raised Christian, in a very "here's what we believe, but who's to say we're right and always question everything" sort of way. At different times in my life I have renounced the existence of a god, had my faith restored, broken, and pieced back together again in new and ever expanding patterns. Through this process, I have come to the conclusion that the question that matters most is not what religion you practice, for they all have their ups and downs, their rights, wrongs, and muddy ground. Instead, the real thing we need to ask ourselves is, are we alone?

Sometimes, I find the rote mechanics of Sunday services to be dusty and droning. There are other times, though, like today, where the simple and familiar patterns of the ceremony provide with me an enormous sense of peace and comfort. I went to church today for the first time in weeks, not for any reason, really, just a small urge inside me that said it would be worth it to get showered, dressed, wriggle the baby into her tights and skirt, and make the drive. During the communion service, there was a person standing at the front to either side of the altar, waiting to offer up a quiet healing prayer with you, if you so desired.

I don't know why I went, I don't know what part of me made the decision, but after taking communion, I went over to the woman, a friend of mine and the pastor's wife. She asked me what we were praying for. And I burst into tears.

"I just want my baby to be okay," are the words I managed to whisper. My daughter is 15 months old and has a developmental delay. In other ways she seems fine, but she is still not standing, crawling, pulling up, or walking. It's finally reached the point that we have to take her in for an assessment to see if she's just a late bloomer or if there is something more serious going on.

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