y faith as a child was complete in that I did not question the validity of my core beliefs. My mind was filled with stories of God’s miraculous intervention in the lives of those who loved Him. In my typical evening prayers, I acknowledged God’s blessings and asked for His watchful care over myself and those I loved. There was no doubt that God was listening and willing.

I also asked Him to bless the poor and the needy; although, I wasn’t sure how much good that did; night after night, it seemed their troubles continued. I had the vaguest of notions of the absurdity of such requests. Surely if some deserving soul was in desperate need of help, God would not wait for me or anyone else to encourage Him to come to their rescue. Still, I grew comfortable with the notion that my prayers helped to make the world a better place.

There were also requests for myself. God, help us find Nifty, our little lost dog. Help me sell some subscriptions to the Salt Lake Tribune so I can win a trip to Disneyland. (That one clearly didn’t go over well. I was certain that God approved of Disneyland, but I lacked a historical perspective on the Salt Lake Tribune.) Don’t let it rain today. Help me get a hit off this pitcher. Help me strike out this batter. Help me jump higher.

Jumping higher was important at one point in my youth. I was learning to high jump. I procured a bamboo pole and rigged up two vertical boards with nails on which to set the horizontal bamboo pole. If I collected all the coats from the house (I had eight or nine brothers and sisters at the time), the pile made for a pretty nice landing spot. Apparently, my prayers got me a few inches, after a great deal of practice. However, it was nothing to distinguish myself amongst my peers.

I did have some success with God on the croquet course on our back lawn. For my tendency to win amongst the neighbor kids, I gave God credit. I paused each time before striking the ball with the mallet until that subtle signal from the Spirit prompted my swing. Every successfully negotiated hoop, every kill, every victory fed my childlike faith that God assisted me. My older brother did not seem impressed when I shared my secret for success.

Eventually, I matured. When BYU basketball and football became important to me, prayer once again entered the competitive arena, but it wasn’t for selfish purposes; really, it was for the glory of God. More people would join God’s Church if His teams did well.

Any time I saw a sports figure acknowledging God in victory, I thought it was admirable. Apparently, God blessed the righteous in sporting events, just as he assisted the righteous nations in developing better weapons of war. There were some discomforting exceptions to the rule, but I suppose that occasionally God had to leave something to natural law or to purposes only He understood.

I served God in the form of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the New Zealand South Mission from 1969 to 1971. There, my prayers further matured, as did my deals with God. Actually, I never met with the phenomenal success that I once anticipated. Baptisms didn’t even come monthly and not very many people were willing to give us a listen. The fact was, I was an average missionary, as far as baptisms go; however, I dare suggest that my conviction was whole-souled.

As missionaries, we tried everything possible to become more spiritual. In one eight-day stretch, my companion and I had four fasts, each one a 24-hour fast without food or water. Of course, it made us weak, which rhymes with meek, and that stands for spiritual.

In my attempted deals with God, I was in no position to drive a hard bargain. I was willing to “give away the farm” so to speak, for success in building God’s kingdom. I often offered God more than I was capable of delivering. Inevitably, after a stretch of failure, our proselytizing paid off, and God received out heartfelt thanks.

A bad analogy comes to mind: Suppose I go to Las Vegas and lose some money. I then feel guilty while frantically pleading with God to help me get some of it back, which He eventually does by way of the slot machines. I thank Him for His help, realizing that my losses could have been much worse. Probably most religious gamblers recognize God’s hand when fortune or the lottery smiles down upon them. (For some people, faith in God comes easier than an understanding of probability or responsible planning.)

My gambling was not the Las Vegas variety. Mine dealt with petitioning God while chancing that an almost empty gas tank would get me to the next town, asking Him to protect me from harm or accident as I ride my bike without a helmet, or asking His blessing upon an unhealthy meal. I sometimes ended up hitch hiking for gas, or with a concussion, or food poisoning, but in most cases God intervened; if not preventatively, then in coping with the aftermath.

Deep down inside we hope for, or expect more of God than allowing our child to suffer injury or extended illness. Certainly, the scriptures foster such hopes of intervention. However, our children usually heal and we know very well that looking such a gift horse in the mouth is a bad, bad idea worthy of one more nudge toward hell’s proximity.

Maybe a more telling example of my gambling/deal-making is shown in how I decided to invest my money upon getting my first full-time job teaching mathematics, at BYU. It wasn’t a high paying job, but the money was more than sufficient for my humble needs. After contemplating on how to secure my financial future, I concluded that investing it in God’s Kingdom seemed like the best idea at that time. Beyond the standard tithing and donations, I put my excess money back into the Church, knowing that God would bless me as He saw fit in the future.

As a single man until the age of forty-five, hormones drove some of my most eloquent petitions to God. Samples of my most oft repeated prayers went something like: “Lord, help me get this girl’s phone number.” Or, “Dear God, I’m losing this girl. Please help. I’ll do anything you ask.” Or, “Make me look like Donny Osmond.”

Actually, the Donny Osmond prayer was never uttered or considered. It was unnecessary. On several occasions, I was mistaken for Donny. (This may sound like wistful thinking, but it did in fact happen.) I think my mistake was in not praying for Donny’s voice and charm.

The mind games heated up as my single years multiplied. Was I leaving too much for God to do? Was I not relying upon God enough? Was God displeased with the pretty girls that I dated? Should I be content with a nice girl who was less than stunning? Was I too prudish, or did I kiss too much? Was God displeased because of my temple attendance, a mere twice a month? Legions of spiritual slackers found mates. Did God expect more of me?

I remember the night I puzzled over my lengthening bachelor years until I was near crazy with dismay. At the depths of my despair that night, one last plea to God produced an intense, spiritual assurance that everything was going to be all right. Admittedly, it might have been an endorphin rush, but God pulled through. In only a few shorts years I found my sweetie.

I noted that good people not only die, they can even die young. Devoted, loving parents lose children to drugs, war, and false religions. (My parents have lost two wonderful sons to humanism.) Eventually I concluded that God does little, if anything, to micro-manage the world in which we live. Miracles, haphazard and unreliable, grew from our exaggerated attempts to establish our connections to God. I figured that God had just wound up the world and let it go; that He put enough into it to give us the experiences we needed for our development then He pretty much disappeared to test our faith. I gave unfeigned thanks for it all, but I saw no merit in asking for personal favors. With that, I figured I had finally reached spiritual adulthood. I had no idea I was only a few experiences away from concluding that the god I knew was the creation of humankind.

In my search for meaningful reality, the surprises have been varied and great, often unwelcome, with little or no warning. Even now, I sincerely doubt that all the unexpected discoveries are behind me. What I believe ten years from now is anyone’s guess. My newfound intellectual freedom is sweet and invigorating. My willingness to be surprised has never been greater; but then, neither has my skepticism. May I never again yield to a new idea without an honest fight.