I Want to See My Faith Feel Like a Child Again

I can still see it—six years old, in my bunk bed, green T-shirt wrinkled from play, wooden sword clutched tight in hand. The world back then was full of magic and possibility. My heart beat in time with imagination; every day was a grand adventure waiting to happen. I remember standing on that top bunk, eyes wide, courage fierce, ready to fly. I jumped, screaming “Peter Pan!” like the world was mine for the taking.

The landing, well… that came hard and fast. To my surprise, my technique wasn’t exactly right. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t give up. I climbed back up again, wooden sword raised, heart still certain that maybe—just maybe—the next time, I’d catch the wind beneath me. Because back then, I knew deep down, if I believed hard enough, I could do anything.

Somewhere along the way, though, something changed. I’m not sure when it happened—maybe quietly, maybe all at once—but my childlike faith grew up. Maybe it got weighed down with logic, with fear, with the lessons life teaches you about gravity and failure and disappointment. Maybe it learned to be cautious instead of courageous, to be reasonable instead of reckless, to believe in what it could control instead of what it could imagine.

But lately, I find myself whispering, take me back.

Take me back to eyes open wide. Take me back to the wonder. To that kid who once believed he was always made to fly—not just in body, but in spirit. The one who looked at the sky and didn’t see limitation, but invitation. Who didn’t question miracles because he expected them. Who didn’t calculate outcomes, but trusted that believing was enough.

Because somewhere beneath the layers of adulthood, the responsibilities, the heartbreak, and the realism that comes with growing older, that same child still lives in me. The one who believed anything was possible. The one who looked up at the stars and thought, God must have had fun making those. The one who felt the presence of the divine in laughter, in the rustle of the trees, in the wonder of being alive.

I want that again.

I want to be amazed. I want to wake up and see the sunrise not as routine, but as a masterpiece painted just for this morning. I want to stand in awe of the way rain sounds against the window, how forgiveness feels when it finally finds you, how love can heal things you thought were beyond repair. I want to drink it all in—the wonder, the mystery, the grace that has always been there but so often gets overlooked in the rush of adulthood.

I want to see my grown-up faith feel like a child again. Not naïve, not blind, but open. I want faith that isn’t afraid to hope too big, to pray too bold, to believe in the impossible again. I want faith that doesn’t need to understand everything to trust that God is still good. Faith that laughs more than it worries, that sings more than it sighs, that dreams more than it doubts.

As children, we didn’t overthink believing. We didn’t analyze trust—we just lived it. We didn’t need proof to know we were loved; we didn’t need to see the wind to know it was there. We didn’t doubt the power of imagination, and maybe that’s why miracles seemed closer. Because faith—real, pure, childlike faith—isn’t about control. It’s about wonder.

It’s the kind of faith that stands on the edge of the unknown, wooden sword in hand, heart pounding with hope, and says, “I’m jumping anyway.”

Maybe that’s what Jesus meant when He said we must have faith like a child. Not that we should ignore the wisdom of growing up, but that we should never let that wisdom steal our wonder. Because the moment we stop believing in what’s possible, we stop really living.

I want to look at life again like that six-year-old in the green T-shirt—unafraid of falling, unashamed of dreaming, unshaken in belief. I want to live with eyes open wide to every small miracle, every unseen blessing, every whisper of God in the ordinary.

Because somewhere deep down, I know that childlike faith still lives inside me—and inside you, too. It’s the quiet voice that tells you to try again when life knocks you down. It’s the nudge that says, believe anyway, even when logic tells you not to. It’s the spark that still looks up and whispers, “I was made for more than this.”

So maybe faith doesn’t always look like flying—it looks like climbing back up after the fall. It looks like daring to believe again, even when your heart remembers the pain. It looks like choosing wonder over weariness, awe over apathy, joy over fear.

I want that kind of faith—the kind that breathes deep and dares to dream again. The kind that makes me see beauty in the mundane and grace in the hard places. The kind that reminds me that I was never meant to just survive life; I was made to live it, to love it, to leap into it with everything I’ve got.

So take me back, Lord. Take me back to that childlike wonder, to that fearless belief. Let me look at Your world again with new eyes—eyes that see You in everything, eyes that trust even when I don’t understand, eyes that sparkle with the faith that I was, and still am, always made to fly