Forging Faith

My faith has been forged - it was not adopted, inherited, or romantically embraced, it was forged. The process took nearly half a century, after a few false starts, lots of petulant battles with Catholic priests, a misguided infatuation with the Baha'i faith, and a great deal of honest introspection. It fits so perfectly now, that I wonder if I had to be where I was, when I was, to accept it. This is not a good thought perhaps. Am I asking if Islam (or any other faith for that matter) was inappropriate for me before this time? Not very theistic! Is this an arrogant, anthropomorphic manipulation of religious doctrine? Should I have always been a Muslim, ready in my mind or not? These are questions that confront me now, not when I ponder simply living my faith, but when I contemplate my need/duty/desire to share it with others, especially my daughters.
Perhaps I had the wrong question in my mind all along. For I had been asking for something to decipher the world around me, rather than explaining what was inside me. The source of this answer I sought was not limited to religion; I queried history, logic, philosophy, and psychology for my Rosetta Stone. And until I was able and willing to look inside, nothing would have been sensible or cogent. I didn't need a faith that explained my occasional bad fortune, the misery of others, the mystical vagaries of the universe - I needed insight into myself.
My cousin and I had a very brief chat tonight about his ongoing literature project with his son. They read poetry and Shakespeare together. I asked him if his son had the schema necessary to "get it." I also wondered aloud if he really wanted his son to ever have some of the experiences needed to truly relate to some of those themes (having in mind the tragedies). He replied that there were other benefits, e.g. language, rhythm, syntax, grammar, and that his son would return to "it" later when he was ready to appreciate the context. I liked that, something to return to. I don't think I ever had something to return to. I think the sheer fact that I never had a faith to come back to is the precise reason I would share my own now. For if salvation is the like the context that cannot be appreciated by a child, then prayer, normalcy,etiquette, and morality are the language, rhythm, syntax, and grammar, the internal leaven that under gird the possibility, nay probability of building an internal, sturdy domicile, forever yours, forever home. Something to come back to.
At the risk of entangling myself in too many metaphors, my "home" was never built, and ironically, I never lived in a house that I or my family owned until I was thirty-five, the first house I bought myself. So yes, in many ways I have had nothing to come back to until the birth of my daughters, the realization of my faith. I have given my two girls a permanent literal home, but I did not help them with their figurative shelter.
Even more sobering (something I have been unable to say frequently since converting) is that I am not sure I would have done a good job with my daughters if I had converted decades ago. It has been my observation, that we as parents, often seek to shelter our children from the very experiences that helped forge our own faith, the very anguish that often creates context. We pray they need not be driven to the brink in order to turn back to the path. We may pray they avert these heartbreaks, but we know otherwise. Perhaps that is the best argument for the other benefits my cousin talked about, something to come back to when the tempest rages in.
My answer to the question lost somewhere in this fustian is that I will share my faith, in anyway for anyone seeking sanctuary from their spiritual homelessness. I will also share more and more of the serene and beautiful stability I have embraced with my daughters as they make their way in their worlds, forging their faith.