I struggle with faith. This doesn’t mean that I don’t believe in a higher power or that I’m shopping for religion. It simply means that I question my notions of God.

For much of my life, I believed in God as a celestial Santa Claus. I would pray for something I wanted or needed, hoping God would grant me that. Nothing selfish, like a dollhouse or a bike, but things like praying for my mother not to have cancer or praying to win the spelling bee or, on a few really bad days, praying that I didn’t exist. God obviously didn’t grant all my wishes — I didn’t win the spelling bee and I still exist.

Some people told me that God knew what I needed better than I did. This logic worked when a bad relationship broke up and I only found out its fatal flaws in retrospect. I couldn’t accept that, however, when I reflected on the abuse I suffered in childhood. Did God want that to happen? Why didn’t He stop it when I prayed?

My friend Mariellen, a Quaker like me, opened my eyes to a healthier faith in God. She said that every night, she prayed for God to remove her burdens, and every morning she woke up with the same burdens, but with more strength to deal with them.

It makes sense. If people have a personal relationship with deity, then the way that deity acts in their lives will be personal. God doesn’t meddle; the potential of humankind can’t be realized with a meddling God. But I believe God lends strength and courage so we can be our most authentic, most powerful selves in the face of adversities large and small.

I can live with that God.