When I was about twelve years of age, I was concerned about life with its problems of suffering, sickness, and eventual death. I felt frustrated and sad. But I also felt hopeful about finding the "how" and "why" of being. One day as I was doing my arithmetic homework, I thought, "Why isn't life as sure and satisfying as arithmetic—solve the problem, then prove it?"
My grandparents were ardent believers in God. They prayed in the morning and at night, and sometimes I was included in this activity. But there was nothing consoling or comforting as I heard them pray for certain blessings. And I could never observe any evidence of God's help as a result of these prayers. This gave me the impression that either God was doing a miserable job or that there was no God.
I couldn't believe that there was a God sitting up there somewhere, acting as a bookkeeper on humans. I found it impossible to pray without knowing who or what I was praying to. This thought was underscored by a family member who said that if he could see that praying would do any good, he might be interested.
