I lay in bed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling for a long time. I felt afraid, alone and angry. I could hear Joel’s peaceful breathing, and I turned to face him.

“Joel?” I whispered. “Are you awake?” I knew he wasn’t, but I wanted him to be.

He turned onto his back and half opened his eyes. ”Yeah, what is it?”

I took a breath and before I spoke. “I don’t know if I’m a Christian anymore.” The words marched out of my mouth like they’d been waiting to be said for a long time.

“What?” Joel sat up and put the pillow behind his back. “Adrienne, what are you talking about?”

My life changed forever during my senior year of high school. God met me on a relief trip to West Virginia, and I would never be the same. I wanted to make my life count and fight the injustices in the world for Christ. To love people and die accomplished. To see the Lord and have Him say, “Well done.” I spent the following summer in Botswana serving a local ministry. Two months later I was on a plane back to the States, my college plans forgotten. I entered into an internship for a radical, 12-month program to grow in my faith and vision to work in missions. The year was amazing; it was a time of rapid growth movement, and I felt ready to take on the world and all of its problems. It was there that I met my husband, Joel; after I finished my internship I moved to California from Texas to be with him. We were engaged in four months, then married six months after that. Our wedding was a ceremony celebrating God’s faithfulness and blessing, and I knew that great things lay ahead.

After our wedding, my energy began to calm as I settled into the hum of reality. Joel and I prayed together and were active leaders at our church. We were surrounded by people who were hungry for God’s revelation. I was in perfect soil to continue cultivating my faith.

About six months into our marriage, however, I noticed a subtle, quiet change inside of me. My faith slowly became distracted. Joel and I would pray together and I’d be thinking about what just happened on Lost. We’d be at church listening to our pastor’s message, and I would catch myself staring out the window and planning out my Christmas shopping. I increasingly lost interest in areas where I was serving in at church. My devotion was slipping away. My fire was fading so gradually that I didn’t see it coming.

I started to question small things about my faith—issues of logic and understanding, passages in the Bible that made no sense to me. I wondered about the validity of God’s word. About the human hands that had written the words. About the possibility of Christ’s perfection here on earth. Why hadn’t God destroyed Satan in the beginning? What about people who are born in third-world countries? Why doesn’t God open up the clouds and show His face?

Suddenly, nothing made sense, and I felt foolish for having believed so strongly in something so fragile. Though I still had a love for God, I was afraid I’d been deceived. I became fearful of death because I no longer felt sure about eternity. I was swallowed up in thinking I had perhaps lost my salvation altogether. And I didn’t share my fears with anyone—except my husband, who stood by me but didn’t know how to help me.

After about six months, I ventured into the House of Prayer one day. Inside I felt out of place as I watched people worshipping the Lord. They seemed so sure of their faith, reminding me of how I’d once been. I took a seat and closed my eyes. For an hour, I simply sat there, listening to the voices around me. There were no lightening bolts, but I left feeling a small amount of comfort. Still afraid, but calmer. I began visiting God, just to be in His presence. Just being there, listening.

I slowly began to remember things. I remembered the time my life was revolutionized on that trip in West Virginia. I thought back to that single minute when something inside of me changed. I thought back to Africa, reading the Word in the bush at sunrise, the words burning in my heart. Holding a baby in the hospital there and feeling God’s love for that child. Back to my internship. The work that took place inside of me. God began to stir the memories in my heart that had brought me to my faith. Had I gotten there on my own? Of course not.

I began to trust a little more, knowing I couldn’t reject what I had witnessed and experienced. I asked God to renew me. To breathe life back into my faith. And it took time. God didn’t answer all of my questions. I had to accept that my human attempt to analyze spirituality would always fail and that I would always have questions—but that’s OK. Asking questions had given me the opportunity to love God in a new way. In a way that required a complete reliance on Him. Now that I had doubts, I had to willingly choose the Lord. I had to choose faith, and that is a scary thing to do.

It was a painful transition to a new season in my faith. But it was also a necessary one. What keeps me going are the memories of the times God has met me in such real ways that He cannot be disputed. I don’t know about those people in in third-world countries, and I definitely don’t have God’s relationship with Satan figured out—but I do know that, sitting on that hill in the mountains five years ago, He was there, and I met Him. And I can rest in that.