“Where is your faith?” he asked them, and suddenly I realized that shrieking to Jesus to help me and having faith that he would take care of me were not the same thing. Faith, that elusive gift that I could not earn, did nevertheless require doing something, something specific. I had to calm myself with the certainty that I was loved and would be taken care of. “Like a weaned child with its mother,” I had to calm myself enough to let my master sleep.
— Patty Kirk, Confessions of an Amateur Believer, p. 248