I write this post tonight from an airplane, jostling in the worst turbulence I have ever experienced. The flight attendants suspended serving drinks and pretzels to strap themselves into their seats. The businessman sitting next to me shut his computer and crossed his arms, his eyes closed in what I can only assume is a prayer for one more safe landing, one more tomorrow. I sit next to him in my own contemplation, trying not to focus on my end but upon my beginning, on what brought me to this moment in my faith formation.

The truth is, I wasn’t supposed to be a Christian, but at two weeks old a priest named Guido baptized me into the faith on a frigid Brooklyn Saturday. My parents—being ambivalent about both organized religion and God—hadn’t planned on this, but when my cousin was born the prior November, they agreed that if I had come into the world, I would crash her new-life-in-Christ party. My agnostic mother and father figured this was a safe bet, as my due date wasn’t until January 21, and the baptism was scheduled for a week prior.

I took my first breath on January 2.

This story captivated me as a little girl, the tale of how I trumped biology to ensure my own wash in the water. It was one of many anecdotes I loved hearing about my early passion for faith: as a two year old, I told my parents to be quiet because God was talking to me. A year later, I ran from my mother’s handhold to open the doors of a church and refused to leave when they were locked. By age four, my parents relented and brought me to an Episcopal church, where I sat in the aisle, propped on a kneeler, mimicking the actions of the priest.

I used to believe that these were stories of how I chose my destiny as a religious professional or how I determined the state of my own formation. And yet, the truth is, there were—there are—faith turbulences, some as rocky as those I feel now, that make me realize that I am not any more in control of my spiritual journey than I am of this aircraft. I recall my despair when standing at a bus stop in Jerusalem next to a female soldier, just my age, who was carrying a gun in her hand while I held a Bible in mine. I remember my sense of helplessness during the early years of the schism that has formed hairline fractures—or maybe broken bones—in my denomination, and my heart still aches when I think on that night as a hospital chaplain when I witnessed the death of four babies. All of these jostled me spiritually and made me wonder if my faith might crash.

And yet, belief persists. That, to me, is the greatest mystery of where I am today, the reality that despite the fissures, bumps, injuries, and yes, even deaths, despite all of that, not just my faith, but the faith of billions persists. It is a faith can lead to transcendence beyond our wildest dreams or evils beyond our widest comprehension. In my future posts, I look forward to exploring all of that—the crashes, the safe landings, and the faith that remains.

Outside the window of this unsteady airplane, the sun has set and there is no moon in the sky. The earth is dark beneath, but in the distance, I see a shimmering, golden glow. Maybe it’s an illusion or maybe it’s light from homes where families put their young, curious toddlers to sleep. Perhaps some of those children ask questions about God before they slumber.

As the plane turns and the turbulence continue, that light disappears into the horizon. I do not know what it was. I only know that if I could leave this airplane, I would chase it until, finally on solid ground, I could bask in its warmth.