When I was eight years old, I heard my parents talking about the Korean War, so one night I asked my mother, “But what if we lose the war?”

“God won’t let us lose the war,” my mother said. I was too young to ask, “If there is a God, then why does He allow wars? or “If God allows wars, then why would He favor one side over another?” I just sought reassurance and got it.

That scene comes to mind as I ask myself. “What does it all mean?” and “Have I done what I’m supposed to have done with my life?” and “Is there a God?”

Let me address the last one, “Is there a God?” Or, more specifically, where do I come out on the whole God issue. But let’s call “God,” for now, “Dog.” And no, I’m not referring to that old joke about the dyslexic who didn’t believe in Dog.

I’m referring to the joy our beagles Salt and Pepper felt when they raced around the Worthington Golf Course in West Virginia on hot summer days. They were, no doubt about it, in heaven during such times — or as close to heaven on earth as dogs can get. Or maybe even humans can get, come to think of it.

My religious upbringing was, er, different. My mother sampled almost every brand of spirituality during her life: Presbyterian, Unitarian, back to Presbyterian, Quaker, Buddhist and Catholic. She died at age 89 as a “Catholic,” although she was selective about what she took from the Church.

My father was an atheist or, to be charitable, an agnostic. He was a brilliant chemical engineer for DuPont, and during World War II he worked on the Manhattan Project. He was a fair-minded sort, so he read the Bible straight through when he was in his 20s, because he wanted to give Christianity a chance.

During the last 50 years, I’ve been an on-and-off churchgoer. Only one church has really spoken to me: Epiphany Episcopal Church in Maryland. The priest, a charismatic guy who gave up the corporate life to go into the priesthood, really got the message of Christianity, at least in my view. He wanted parishioners to be engaged in the life of the church and the issues of the world. He welcomed gays when gays were shunned most everywhere else. He hired a woman as his assistant, again ahead of the curve. Years later, he performed the wedding service for Tina and me at the Bowdoin Chapel, and we’ve remained close friends.

As I’ve gotten older and wiser, some might say more cynical, I’ve become ever less tolerant of the horrible acts being committed in the name (or cloak) of formal religion. The World Trade Center attacks. Priests abusing altar boys. The Irish “troubles.” “Christians” spewing hatred of the “gay lifestyle” and demanding the right to carry guns where they live, eat, shop and work. And on and on.

Surprisingly — at least to me — I have not given up the search for God, for evidence that some Higher Being exists, whatever his/her name.

A dear friend shared a poem she wrote, something she calls a “small stone,” which hints at where I come out on the whole God question.

“Clouds really have the hang of it.

Puffing aimlessly

Through blue,

They never stop to wonder

What they are or who.”

My dogs Salt and Pepper never stopped to wonder about what they were or who when they raced around the golf course, chasing wondrous smells. They were just doing what they were born to do. So was my dog Chowder, a robust Black Lab, the Pavarotti of Dogs, who embraced life and food wherever and whenever he found it. The night before he died he looked into my eyes for a long, long time. He was saying “Goodbye” in his way. That was God talking through him, preparing me somehow.

I also see God in undoglike ways. In the delight my granddaughter Sosie conveys when she tells a joke. In the way my granddaughter Emma plays the violin or my grandson David drives to the hoop. They’re doing what they were meant to do, not stopping to wonder what they are or who.

Annie Lamott, author of the magical book, “Bird By Bird,” gets it right:

“Time is so full for people who are dying in a conscious way, full in the way life is full for children. They spend big round hours.”

More and more these days, I find myself trying to spend big round hours. And I try to help others do so along the way, especially young people. I guess that’s how I find my God, the sense that there’s more to life than just getting through. And that’s good enough for me, for now.

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David Treadwell is a writer who lives in Brunswick. He can be reached at dtreadw575@aol.com.