i don't know if i believe in God

When I was 9 years old, my dog died. She was 2 months old and ran into the road and a car came too fast and took her to heaven. At least that’s how my dad told me the news when I left school early to say goodbye to her. I remember thinking she was lucky that God chose her to go to heaven, He must have thought she was special. He needed her. When I found out about heaven as a child, I was excited to go there, and I worked hard every day to make sure I would end up there, I didn’t mind when that would be – the earlier the better, I guessed.

I was a very gullible child. I made houses for fairies in the garden, left my tooth under the pillow and wrote notes to the tooth fairy, a 4-year-old girl told me once when I was 3 that if you sleep with your feet out the covers a clown will come and bite them off. I slept tightly under the covers as small as I possibly could for 8 years. The night my dog died I sat crossed legged in bed, put my hands together and sobbed, looking up to the sky (my night-light lit ceiling), and I prayed to God to let me speak to my dog. I then told my dog how much I loved her and missed her already, and that I would speak to her every night. And I did, for 5 years.

When I was 12 years old, my other dog died. We grew up together and I loved her like I loved my mum, and my dad, and the princess diaries 1 and 2. I was heartbroken, but part of me felt calm, because I knew I had a way of staying close to her, something no one else knew about, or could take away from me. I went to bed that night, laying on my back, my 12 teddies lined up beside me, all ready for bed, and I put my hands together, closed my eyes, and spoke to God.

He let me talk to both of them, and I imagined a big speaker in the clouds projecting my voice and both of them stopping playing and running up together to hear what I had to say. They looked happy, and healthier than they did on earth. Again, I promised her I would never forget about her, and I would pray every night to make sure they were okay. Sometimes I would talk to them about my day, tell them I loved them, and say goodnight. I would have to say I love you four times, two for each dog, and tap my hands together six times and blow the prayer into the sky like a kiss, or it wouldn’t work. I did this every night for years.

What’s funny is I wasn’t a religious child. I have never attended church unless for a school play or to sightsee, the idea of God or religion was never forced upon me, and I never said yes when anyone asked if I believed in God. I would say “I’m not sure, I think there’s something. But I don’t think it’s a man in the sky. I don’t know, maybe”. Though I trusted him for 5 years to deliver my messages, so I must have believed him.

I am scared of God. I am scared of God so I must believe in Him. I am scared of Him so I do things I think he might like, like use a capital H and a capital G. I do things like say sorry when I feel like I’ve thought something bad or think, please don’t punish me when I feel ungrateful.

I’m not sure what I believe now. I don’t pray. I don’t blow kisses into the sky or imagine a big speaker in the clouds. When I’m scared or sad, I don’t know if I’d turn to Him. But sometimes, I still feel like He’s there. I feel Him when something good happens, when I get an opportunity I didn’t expect or meet someone who feels oddly familiar. I feel Him when I walk through the woods in spring and everything is green, and it smells damp, and I think, this is beautiful. I feel Him when I sit with grief and realise I don’t feel as alone as I probably should.

But maybe that’s not God. Maybe it’s hope, or nature, or some leftover childhood belief I haven’t grown out of. Maybe it’s nothing at all.

I don’t think I’ll ever have a definitive answer. I don’t think anyone does. But I know I miss being a kid and believing so easily. I miss making fairy houses and praying to a God I didn’t really understand and feeling like the world made sense. Sometimes I think about that version of myself - less cynical, less afraid of being wrong or disappointed. I wish I could be more like her. But growing up has a way of wearing those things out of you. You lose some of that blind faith. The world feels less magical, less fair. You start noticing how messy and complicated it all is.

I don’t know if I believe in God. But I think, sometimes, I still believe in believing. And maybe that’s enough.