On my keychain are three charms: a medal of St. Christopher, a medal of St. Luke, and a necklace charm, composed of plastic that mimics the appearance of crystal, of a cross.

Prior to the numerous plane trips I took around the country when interviewing for medical school, my college roommate presented me with the medal of St. Christopher, insisting that I attach it to something that I always carried with me.

“St. Christopher is the patron saint of travellers,” she explained. “I want you to travel safely for the next few months. Please carry this with you. Put it on your keychain or something.”

I also received the medal of St. Luke from her, though I had asked her to procure one for me. I was about to begin medical school and believed that I needed all the help I could get.

“St. Luke is the patron saint of doctors,” I explained. “Though I don’t believe that saints are actually watching over me”—I was a Protestant; she was a Catholic—”I like the idea that God will help me become a good doctor. God willing, I will never hurt or kill anyone.”

I cannot remember how I obtained the cross, but I do recall that I relegated it to my keychain because it was too gaudy as a necklace charm.

Sometimes, my fingers mindlessly rub the surfaces of these charms while they are in the pocket of my pants. Occasionally, I do this because I feel anxious; other times, I feel bored. St. Luke now has a dull sheen and St. Christopher is discolored. The cross is scratched and doesn’t refract light as brightly as it once did.

My faith in the Christian church has never been strong. Though the churches I had attended throughout my life had encouraged fellowship, I consistently—almost stubbornly—avoided establishing social ties with others in the pews. The hypocrisy I had witnessed within the church in the past deeply annoyed me; how could people listen attentively to a sermon about compassion and generosity and, the moment they exited the sanctuary, lazily stumble into catty, condescending conversations about other members? The gossip that fluttered from their lips was comparable to that I heard around my locker in junior high. Whatever happened to faith and good works? Shouldn’t we intend to be in constant communion with God, rather than reducing it to one hour a week? Wasn’t faith more of a daily practice and not a fashion statement?

Wasn’t God with us always, even when other people were not?

I succumbed to the rigorous schedule of my intern year and my church attendance dwindled. I said my most fervent prayers while trudging up the cool, concrete stairs around 4:00am, asking God to help my patients—I was often certain that I wasn’t. I asked God to let people die in peace; the brutality of codes was frequently heartbreaking. I asked God to grant me a reprieve from the onslaught of ill patients—I was so worried that I would commit an unforgivable error because of my fatigue.

My prayers were not consistently that deferential; they were often stony, angry silences. How could God allow this doting, single mother develop metastatic cervical cancer? Why couldn’t God cast out the demon of cystic fibrosis from the eleven year-old boy—and, worse, how could God permit him to die? Why did God allow the drunk driver to collide into the car carrying a family returning from a high school graduation, where the eldest daughter just received her diploma? What reasons did God have for allowing the drunk driver to survive while the entire family perished? Why did God not grant the prostitute hope to leave her profession and pursue her dream of becoming a singer?

What was God doing?

And then, further into my residency, God appeared before me in the form of psychotic human beings. I’ve met God at least a dozen times now. And then there are the numerous people who hear the voice of God—an unkind, merciless God who endlessly reminds them of their shortcomings and failures. God represented guilt for so many—

“—if I was a better Christian, I wouldn’t hear these voices.”

“God tells me every single day that I will never go to heaven and that I will burn in hell forever.”

“God told me to jump off of the bridge to atone my sins. I want to be a good Christian and do what God says.”

Why does God refuse to heal this leprosy of the mind? Antipsychotic medications rarely completely mute the tyranny of voices—couldn’t God at least answer all of our prayers and grant these tormented individuals peace?

The people who are manic try to fly out of highrise buildings because they believe God has given them the gift of flight. The people who are depressed believe that they have wasted the gift of life God had bestowed upon them and express despair about the absence of grace—their own or that of others.

Was God really with us always? Was God ever with us?

I want to believe—though I am the most uncertain I have ever been about God and faith. Religion, though meant to make God more accessible (amongst other possible unscrupulous reasons), seems to have contorted spirituality into a brightly-colored puppet show, where the dialogue is stilted, the setting is artificial, the action is overly scripted, and the narrative is hackneyed and stale. The puppet masters look down upon the captivated audience, carefully constructing the next act to ensure their return.

Sometimes, I wonder if God waits for me the way I wait for God. Often, I hope so.

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)