Of all the engines that push us through the chilly helplessness that is childhood, none is stranger or stronger than faith. Whether the accidents of our birthplace us in an observant family or an agnostic one, whether we worship weekly or not at all, we all, when young, believe: We believe that justice is possible and life eternal, we believe that fate is pliable and love forever renewed, we believe in our parents no matter their flaws and in the world no matter how cutting. It’s only as we grow older and tired that we begin to consider trading in some portion of our feral hope for something else that’s easier to carry, and we softly sigh as wonder leaves our lungs like an exhalation and quietly commend ourselves for putting away childish things.
Except, of course, we never do: We may no longer believe in our childhood demons, but they, resilient beasts, always believe in us.
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