mixed, intermingled, mystery

I started a book by Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies. I had to make myself put it down at night in order to go to sleep. Then I lost the book and was in much despair. I was overjoyed to discover it today at work in this shelf where I keep my wheat bread. I don't know why I put it there...possibly to hide it from thieves. So I've got it again and had this email conversation with a friend today that made me think about Lamott's description of her own faith and thought I would share it here:

My coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another. Like lily pads, round and green, these places summoned and then held me up while I grew. Each prepared me for the next leaf on which I would land, and in this way I moved across the swamp of doubt and fear. When I look back at some of these early resting places - the boisterous home of the Catholics, the soft armchair of the Christian scientist mom, adoption by ardent Jews - I can see how flimsy and indirect a path they made. Yet each step brought me closer to the verdant pad of faith on which I somehow stay afloat today.