And yet, paradoxically, during those years of struggle, not believing in him, not seeing him, having no faith at all, I nevertheless felt him there. He was present in my anger. Present in my loneliness. Present in my world’s refusal to be what I wanted it to be, and present in his own denial of anything I wanted to make him into. Present. With me. Patiently waiting for me to turn and see him. And still I struggled.
— Patty Kirk, Confessions of an Amateur Believer, p. 67