I think believing in God is a spectrum, like autism or sexuality. I don't pray, and I don't send prayers to others. I do cross my fingers when an ambulance goes by, as I was taught to do by my atheist mother (who once fired a cleaning lady for singing songs about Jesus).
But I know for sure that I believe in grace—a magical arrangement of the universe that temporarily blots out all worries, awkwardnesses, incongruities, disappointments and cruelties for moments and hours and even days and convinces you that, actually, everything is perfect. I've had so many moments of grace—on people's porches, on sailboats, in cars, on my motorcycle.
I had my last one last week, as I sat at The Dock bar at Montrose Beach here in Chicago. I'd been on a beautiful run down the shore and had a glass of Heineken in front of me, and a fine folk band behind me played "I'll Fly Away." A full moon rose to the south, and I looked out on the lake over the beach where my daughter played soccer in her bare feet.
Somebody might tell you that if you believe in grace, you believe in God. And maybe you do, after all.