After twenty years of unbelief, doubt had become a habit. Doubting was easy, routine; it was my natural, instinctive reaction. Somewhere along the line I had stopped considering any other options. Doubt was my default. So choosing the blessing, the miracle, over coincidence had to be a conscious choice. I had to dismiss doubt as the crutch that it was, dismiss my gut instinct and embrace the more challenging alternative.
Frankly, I even worried about the fact that I was so worried. Worrying about the strength of my faith—how it stood up to others'—didn’t seem to be a healthy sign. I mean, didn't worrying about faith defeat the whole point of faith? Weren't we supposed to just "let go and let God"? I didn't "let go and let God" very well. I worried about that.
I had a problem with commitment. I was afraid to proclaim that I had found Jesus, been saved, boarded the boat bound for eternal life. I figured it wasn't something I could announce one week and then a month or two later admit, "Oh yeah, sorry, people. That was my Jesus phase. I'm into transcendental meditation now.