"We are put on earth for a little space, that we may learn to bear the beams of love."--William Blake.

HELD A BEAM OF LOVE IN my arms. Noah was so tiny. Less than four pounds, wrapped in clothes too big for him. He had soft brown fuzz over his head, a pug nose, and full lips. Ten tiny fingers and 10 tiny toes, and the eensiest toenails. He was beautiful. He was stillborn.

Now, more than a year later, his twin brother, Christian, is thriving. I cannot really describe how I grieved Noah's death while simultaneously celebrating the joy of Christian's life. What I do want to share is the process of how this event affected my relationship with God.

I have struggled with faith ever since I was a kid. I remember desperately praying for faith, but dubiously wondering how I could have enough faith to receive faith without faith. It may sound funny, but it didn't feel that way. I was told that everyone gets a portion of faith. I figured mine must have gotten lost behind the dryer with all those odd socks. I have always had to choose my way to God. And it has not been easy.

I am an Adventist. I was raised Adventist, went (mostly) to Adventist schools, and have always led out in Sabbath schools. I believe in the community, the culture, of Adventism. But I didn't want to live with just a culture of religion; I wanted to truly believe. I have always had a longing for God--a desire to fill that God-shaped hole within me. Yet it has been an effort to "feel" a personal God, and I try not to squirm when I hear faithful folk talk of their miracles, which to me had either a logical explanation or were fanciful coincidences. I know, I am a skeptic. (The trick is to not be a cynic too.)

o add to the difficulty of my faith, I became indoctrinated (through education) into the world of the scientific method, where evidence is necessary for something to be termed "truth." Yet, living in a postmodern world, it was cognitively an easy bridge to accept positivism--that truth is bigger than science; that a spiritual realm can coexist with the scientific realm. Still, my doubts.

On the outside, I'd pray before class; I'd teach the Sabbath school lesson, talk of the glories of God. Inside, I was desperately seeking--evidence, a vision or revelation to call my own, truth. I refused to be a hypocrite. I would give up my job in a Seventh-day Adventist institution, disappoint my family, and leave my beloved culture before persisting in something I didn't believe. The quest for truth was my passion.

I studied other religions and spiritual paths, submitting them all to the Adventist litmus. I had long talks with friends. I prayed for faith. In one of my discussions with a pastor-friend I asked about faith. His answer led me to understand that different personalities relate to God differently. He said that he had never had a problem with faith. Doubt never entered his mind. He knew there was a God! Oh, how I envied that capability to let go and just trust. I yearned for that confident assurance that, yes, God does exist. And that, yes, God is personal.

Noah's death changed my passion and my total thinking schema.

I got married late in life to the beloved for whom I had long sought. I was at that age that is right on the verge of "Are you going to have children, or not?" We wanted them desperately. But alas, nothing happened. We went through the long, horrific, and expensive rigmarole of reproductive technology to finally find ourselves pregnant with twins. Oh, what joy that cannot be expressed! I felt that God had done this miracle just for me. He had given me this vast gift that would take away all doubts. Throughout my pregnancy I felt buoyed by God, as if I were in a bubble of His protection. I knew that God was forgiving me, blessing me, and answering my prayers (for children, yes, but even more so, for faith). Here was evidence of a miracle--life within me. And not just one life, but two. It was almost like God was saying, "Here is your revelation! Here is more than one proof that I AM!"

All was well (if you don't count morning sickness, from which I left my mark on almost every corner in the county). Then all was not well. Noah, the baby who kicked the hardest, died right before birth. One alive, one dead. Shock, numbness, fear for his twin, moment-by-moment survival went on for quite a while.

Once life quieted its roar, questions began. How could God create life, but not be responsible for death? How could I thank Him for this one awesome life without damning Him for this other dreadful death? Was He indeed a personal God? Had He indeed any power over death? Why would He offer me this beautiful gift, only to wrench him away? Was I being punished for some past sin? Hadn't many people prayed for the safe outcome of this pregnancy? What is the power of prayer, then? When Jesus was on earth, why did He spend so much energy healing the sick if He wants us to focus only on the inner spiritual life? Yes, I had one exquisite baby, but my arms ached for his twin. I ranted at God, and wondered at myself for my fair-weather religion. I considered life without God in it. I considered being bitter. Neither seemed a good way to live.

My faith in tatters again, I hoped desperately for a heaven to reunite me with my heart's bliss. Was there such a place? The idea of not holding my baby again was appalling. The fear of nothingness after death filled me with terror. How I chose to react to this loss would determine the quality of my life (and the life of those around me). I needed to believe. To me, it came down to four choices: (1) There is no God; (2) There is a powerful God, but He does not care for our everyday existence; (3) There is a God who is personal, but He does not have the power to intervene; (4) God exists and is powerful, personal, and compassionate.

choose to believe the last one--because I need to. God is powerful and able to intervene and wants to because He loves us. Every day I look into the bright eyes of my living son, and I choose to believe in a personal God who would give me this gift and comfort me in my loss by offering hope. All questions aside, hope is the bottom line.

When I was talking again with my friends, they pointed out that life believing in God is of more quality than a life without God and without His hope. Karl Marx would laugh that I am confirming his idea that religion is "the opiate of the masses," and Freud would say I was supporting his notion that religion is for the weak-minded.

You know, I don't care. Believing in a personal God certainly offers more value than nihilism--the belief that existence is senseless and useless, and has no meaning; that there is only empty despair. I see that as a despondent hopelessness with forced meanings to offer some reason to continue life. I believe that all of us at some time must face that nothingness, that existential terror. For me, that time was now. This was the only choice that satisfied me. Believing in a personal God offers a truer raison d'etre. There becomes a purpose to life through spiritual connection to a supreme source of meaning, community with others of like belief, and, ultimately, hope for transcendence beyond all this. This offered not only the beauty of salvation for myself but hope in a place to join with a part of my heart that has been lost, without which my life would not be complete. I need to believe to live. And to live abundantly.

Since our last conversation my pastor-friend had gone through his own devastating loss. His certainties had now turned into questions. He said that every day he must choose to believe in a personal caring God. He had not lost his faith, but it had been transformed. Hope guided him. His everyday existence became one of resignation--not a hopeless resignation, but no longer surprised at life's evil; a loss of idealism, maybe, but never a loss of faith.

I don't know if I am yet at that place in my grief. Prayer still comes difficult for me, and I continue to long to feel God. Still, time has now offered some answers. Hope creates a cognitive structure for my faith to abide. I know there are no answers for all the "whys"; there is only mystery. But I choose to live with an unrevealing God. I don't know why God doesn't consistently intervene. I don't know why my brother suffers constantly with Crohn's disease, another brother struggles to walk because of polio, a client committed suicide, a cousin died in a car crash, my mother-in-law died of cancer, a friend was murdered, and my son never got to breathe.

I do know that I want to hold my baby again--this time, wiggling, squirming, smiling, cooing. I choose to find peace in mystery. I would rather live in mystery with God than in mystery without Him. I am bearing this beam of love.

Every day my hope for something better than this tearstained world cultivates faith. My hope is that there is a love that surpasses all joy and grief. My hope is that love will transcend all things, soon. For now, I live in hope.

"O God, whom I praise, do not remain silent" (Ps. 109:1, NIV). "Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God" (Ps. 42:11, NIV).

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Cindee Bailey is a professor of social work and sociology at Walla Walla College in College Place, Washington--a wife, and mother now of another beautiful boy.