Faith is Quiet Courage

Last night, I was watching the series Numbers when a line from one of the characters made me pause. He said: “Real faith doesn’t transcend knowledge. It can only adapt to it and embrace it.” 

The word real lingered in my mind. Why “real”? Is there another kind of faith? 

Let me start with the definition, because, while we all assume we know what faith means, there may be something we haven’t seen or understood. Faith is commonly defined as a strong belief or trust in someone or something, especially without needing absolute proof. The Oxford Dictionary describes faith as complete trust or confidence in someone or something. The Merriam-Webster says it is a firm belief in something for which there is no proof; belief and trust in and loyalty to God. 

How you understand or use the word faith all depends on what you’re emphasizing. For example, a philosopher will focus on belief without proof. A religious person will emphasize trust and loyalty to God. And many will see faith as confidence in someone or something. 

What does the Bible say? 

Hebrews 11:1 (NIV): “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” 

According to the book of Hebrews, faith gives tangible weight to our hopes. Faith transforms hope from an emotional desire into a spiritual certainty. Without faith, hope is fragile; with faith, hope is sustained, even when life offers no visible reason to keep believing. 

Hope is portrayed as forward-looking, while faith is the present assurance that the things we long for are not in vain. Faith doesn’t eliminate uncertainty, but provides a foundation in the midst of it. Hope thrives because faith makes it real, even when reality says otherwise.  

Faith can take many forms. Spiritually, there’s saving faith, doctrinal faith, and mystical faith. Each reflects a person’s connection to the divine. Psychological faith is emotional, rational, or rooted in self-belief. We see it in the way people live with trust or confidence. Philosophical and cultural perspectives express include existential faith, faith in humanity, or faith in institutions. Each of these types of faith trust something beyond the immediate or tangible. 

But what is real faith? 

Real faith is a deep, active trust that lasts through uncertainty and change. It isn’t blind or passive. Instead of avoiding doubt or resisting knowledge, real faith grows through learning. 

We often think of faith and knowledge as opposites. Faith is in the heart, and knowledge in the mind. Faith is emotional, and knowledge is logical. But in reality, the two are more intertwined than we realize. 

We can see this in our daily lives, in how we live. Especially in hard times. We exercise faith when we trust others, plan for the future, or believe in things we can’t prove but still know to be true. In those moments, faith is rooted in knowledge. It draws on past experiences, memory, and understanding. Likewise, knowledge often begins with faith. Faith that our methods are reliable, that truth exists, that understanding is worth pursuing. When we ask honest questions, new knowledge can challenge old assumptions. Real faith doesn’t ignore this. It welcomes it. It remains rooted in trust, open to learning, and committed to walking the lifelong path of growth and discovery. 

Of course, pursuing understanding isn’t always an easy task. Even the most intelligent minds work within limits. No one operates with full knowledge. From birth, we are shaped by biology, environment, education, and relationships. Our brains develop unevenly; our perspectives are shaped by what we’ve encountered and how we interpret it. And because our understanding is limited, and we live with so much uncertainty, we need faith to have a meaningful life. 

Real faith doesn’t freeze us in place. It moves us forward. It renews our thinking and strengthens our vision.

As Romans 12:2 (NIV) reminds us: “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” 

This verse is a call to change, to growth, and to becoming more than we were. 

Having said all this, I now fully understand the concept: Real faith doesn’t transcend knowledge. To transcend something is to rise above it. If faith tries to rise above facts or understanding, it would lead to the rejection of anything that threatens one’s belief system. It risks becoming hollow—detached from reality, even dangerous. 

Real faith doesn’t pretend to know everything. It listens. It questions. It arises from thought and often works alongside it. It can adapt when knowledge changes, resist when fear or uncertainty creep in, strengthen when reason supports it, and persist even when reason fails. 

In the end, faith doesn’t begin where thinking stops. It begins where thinking alone is no longer enough. It’s the quiet courage to trust in something more, even when everything we know falls just short of certainty.

A Love-Hate Affair

At the beginning of the year, I decided I was going to write my next novel. The struggle was real. My first attempt made it to five chapters before fizzling out. The second didn’t even survive past chapter three. I just couldn’t get my head in the game. (Peripheral neuropathy in my feet and hands doesn’t exactly help—concentration is like trying to hold soap with wet hands.)

Eventually, I thought, that’s it. No more books. I’d focus on designing adverts for my small business instead—something simpler, like arranging fonts and wondering if teal and pink are eye-catching enough.

But! Writing is part of who I am. It’s how I process the world, how I think, how I breathe. I love words. More than that, Writing is my teacher. I learn something new every time I sit down to write—usually something humbling, occasionally something useful.

So… I tried again. Third time lucky, right?

Right.

With a clear goal of 85,000 words, I started. Stuck to it. Wrote. Edited. Read each chapter a gazillion times. Despaired. Rewrote. And eventually, I self-published ‘I Think You Know’ on Amazon.

As always, amid the blur of writing and reading, I found myself face-to-face with my oldest nemesis: punctuation. Honestly, the endless debates in my head drive me nuts. To dash or not to dash? Dash or ellipsis? Ugh! And parentheses—where do they even belong? Comma here? There? Anywhere? Or maybe there are just too many commas.

Editing my own work—supposedly cost-effective in my mind—is rather expensive on time and sanity. I won’t even mention the future ‘hidden costs’ when all the editing lands me on a therapy couch for psychoanalysis.

As always, before writing, I watched videos and read articles about how real authors get it done. I explored different styles, themes, and tones of voice. Which narrator would work best—third person or first?

First person always seems like the right fit for the particular brand of crazy I harbour somewhere inside. It draws out the humour in my equally unhinged protagonist’s storytelling.

Of course, there’s always more to it than just some subtle research. There’s also the former-English-teacher in me who occasionally climbs out to join the circus. I have a natural flair for writing rigid, formal sentences—the kind with textbook-approved parentheses, neat and predictable, just like the lessons I used to teach. There’s rarely room for rogue punctuation running wild.

And yet, the imperfect woman I am—not quite English, not quite Afrikaans—somewhere between Engaans and Afringlish—makes many, many, many mistakes.

Believe me, when you read my work, it has usually been polished to the brink of madness. Any errors you find are simply the result of reaching that point of “I can’t see anything anymore”—blinded by the plight of my perfectionistic tendencies. Or perhaps there’s a trace of OCD quietly lurking between the lines.

Having said all this, it turns out fiction doesn’t much care for formal writing. In creative writing, brackets are the overachievers of punctuation—and they’ve been my go-to in every novel I’ve written.

By the way—if you’re still reading, colour me impressed. I’m genuinely smiling over here, knowing you’re still on board—and, miraculously, unbored.

Back in the day, I always told my students: the dash is the shorter line—it separates. The hyphen is the longer line—it joins. I taught it with imagery. For example:

You dash from the scene of a crime. You separate yourself from it. 
You say hi to join a conversation (hi = hy for hyphen.)

This year, while revising punctuation, I discovered a worthy replacement for the dash, the comma, and yes, even the bracket: the em dash. Apparently, it’s a thing. The free spirit of the punctuation world—unruly, versatile, and oddly good at making a sentence work.

And, just to be sure it wasn’t nonsense, I paged through a few novels and—lo and behold—authors have been using it forever.

The em dash interrupts, emphasises, and gives thoughts room to stretch:

She opened the door—then froze.
There was no other explanation—it had always been him.
His thoughts—scattered, rambling, brilliant—took over.

It mimics speech. It breathes. It sighs. It’s practically alive. The em dash is the jazz of punctuation—improvised, emotional, occasionally too much.

I never knew this, but now I do. Hence the earlier statement: Writing is my teacher. 

Almost 60 and still learning.

And just to stir the dash debate even further, it doesn’t stop there. 

Enter the en dash, a revelation. Slightly longer line than a hyphen, shorter than the em dash, used for ranges or connections: The 2022–2023 season was chaotic. Or. The Johannesburg–Cape Town route is beautiful. 

Retirement from teaching hasn’t stopped me from learning. If anything, it’s made me more curious.

But, of course, in a nutshell, writing shouldn’t be about rules. Even though I edit as I write, it doesn’t diminish what truly matters: emotion, honesty, and connection. Sometimes, the smallest mark—a dash, a dot, a well-placed comma—does more than hold a sentence together. It shapes meaning, guides feeling, and breathes life into words. Yes, punctuation is vital—but so are character development, authenticity, setting, and the careful build-up of suspense in the narrative, and all the other elements that make a book a great read. And if a touch of humour sneaks in? Well, that’s just a welcome bonus.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Maybe you, like me, find beauty in the art of writing. And maybe—just maybe—that’s where its true magic lies.

As Ernest Hemingway said, “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”