I grew up in church.
I was baptized as a child. I sang in the choir. I memorized the Beatitudes and the disciples’ names. I even studied religion in college. If anyone had asked me what I was, I would have answered without hesitation:
A Christian.
And yet, if I’m honest, my faith mostly lived in one place — Sunday morning.
I believed in God the way many of us do. I prayed before meals. I attended services on holidays. I admired the teachings of Jesus. But my faith functioned more as a moral framework than a relationship. God was part of my life, but not someone I walked with daily.
I knew about Christ.
I did not know Christ.
I didn’t realize the difference until the day my life stopped.
In December 2018, my husband and I welcomed our son Michael into the world at 24 weeks and 1 day of pregnancy. He weighed one pound, seven ounces. His eyes were fused shut. We were told to prepare for survival being unlikely and disability being probable.
We entered neonatal intensive care and began living minute to minute.
Suddenly, the faith I had comfortably held at arm’s length was the only place left to go. I didn’t have eloquent prayers. I didn’t have theology. I had desperation.
I found myself praying honestly for the first time in my life.
“God, if you’re real, I need you.”
And slowly, unexpectedly, I began to experience not just comfort but presence.
One night, I had to leave the hospital to sleep. I sat beside Michael’s incubator unable to stand. I was frozen with guilt and fear. I began praying over and over, asking God to stay with my son because I couldn’t. Then, two angels followed by Christ himself came into the room.
For the first time, prayer wasn’t ritual. It was relationship.
Over the following months, something began changing inside me. I found peace in moments where peace made no sense. I found hope in medical situations that offered none. I began sensing that Christianity was not simply a belief system; it was an invitation to walk with a living Savior.
But even then, my faith was still immature. I wanted encounters more than obedience. I wanted comfort more than transformation.
Then Michael became critically ill again.
After we brought him home, he contracted RSV and was rushed back into intensive care. This time the doctors quietly told us we had reached the end of treatment. Machines were sustaining his body, but they did not believe he would live.
My husband and I walked into a hospital chapel and collapsed to the floor.
There are moments in life when your faith becomes very simple. Mine was reduced to one plea:
“God, please.”
I left the chapel and returned to his bedside. I asked God what to do, and a clear thought came to me:
Open the book.
A Bible sat beside me — my grandmother’s. I opened it randomly and placed my finger down. It landed on Matthew 14, where Peter steps out of the boat toward Jesus.
I read:
“But when he saw the wind, he was afraid, and beginning to sink he cried out, ‘Lord, save me.’ Jesus immediately reached out his hand and took hold of him.” (Matthew 14:30–31, ESV)
I suddenly understood something I never had before.
Peter did not walk on water because he was strong.
He walked on water because he fixed his eyes on Christ.
The moment he looked at the storm instead of the Savior, he sank.
That was my faith. I had believed in Jesus when life was calm. But when the waves came — fear, exhaustion, uncertainty — I realized I didn’t truly trust Him. I admired Him. I respected Him. I even identified with Him.
But I didn’t depend on Him.
In that hospital room, my faith changed from agreement to surrender.
I began seeking God not only when I felt Him, but when I didn’t. I opened Scripture daily, not as information but as conversation. I learned that a relationship with Christ is not sustained by emotional experiences but by steady turning toward Him again and again.
Michael survived.
His survival was miraculous, yes — but the deeper miracle was what happened in me. My circumstances led me to Christ, but my relationship with Christ carried me through the years after the crisis ended.
I used to think being a Christian meant believing the right things.
Now I understand it means walking with a person.
Many of us live as what I once was: cultural Christians. We appreciate faith, we agree with Scripture, and we want our children to know God. But we keep Him safely in a compartment of our lives.
Yet Jesus did not invite us to admire Him. He invited us to follow Him.
Relationship with Christ is not reserved for crises. It is offered in ordinary Tuesdays, school runs, quiet mornings, and tired evenings. We don’t need perfect faith. We don’t need eloquent prayers.
We simply need to turn toward Him.
Like Peter, we will look at the wind sometimes. We will doubt. We will fear. But Scripture shows us something beautiful: Jesus did not wait for Peter to swim back to the boat.
He immediately reached out His hand.
I once called myself a Christian.
Now I know Christ, and the difference has changed everything.
{If you enjoyed this blog post, you might also like this episode of The Love Offering Podcast, where Rachael chats with Ruth Schwenk who offers a way forward from our anxious minds and hurried hearts, so we can experience the confident calm we crave and face life with God’s peace and renewed strength. Discover the calming reassurance of God, who is the only One who can truly be trusted in all the things. You can listen to the episode here.}
About the Author:
Ash Ruddy is writer, award-winning business coach, speaker, and advocate for special educational needs and the female experience. A proud Vermonter now residing in London with her husband and two children—one a thriving miracle preemie—she draws from her diverse path, including her crowning as Miss Vermont 2008, to empower women in embracing authenticity, resilience, and a deeper walk with Christ. As Governor of a specialist school and host of the Substack newsletter Ash Ruddy Unfiltered, Ruddy’s mission is to inspire connected living and bold faith through storytelling that uplifts and transforms.
