baby steps

I’m seeing a new psychologist tomorrow.

I’m still a bit labile, I hope I don’t cry.  I hope I can  keep the mindset that I’m hiring her to help me.  Emphasis on the HIRING part.  I’ve been perceiving my therapists as authority figures and that’s not healthy.

In thinking about what my expectations of therapy are, I’ve been wondering if my expectations have been very realistic.  I am in my forties.  I’ve been very isolated.  I could probably be diagnosed as agoraphobic. ( I haven’t been formally diagnosed as such).  I am easily overwhelmed.  I have little to no outside support.

What changes can I realistically make?  I tend to look at the finish line and panic.  By that I mean, envision myself in a steady job, competently earning a nice income and navigating my way in the real world with ease.  This is something that I want, this is something that I don’t have the tools to actually make happen at this time and it scares the hell out of me.

So I’m wondering what is realistic?  How many people my age, who have isolated themselves for so many years have been able to crawl out of that hell?  Who have no support or friendships because of that isolation?

But I’m trying so hard not to get bogged down by my past.  I’ve been trying so damn hard not to let that stop me from trying anyway.  I have to start where I am, no matter what my circumstances are.  I am here.  I can’t change that.

I’ve been thinking about college.  I can’t afford classes right now.  Our public library system has an online learning center with free courses in math, business English, adult job skills refresher courses among many other resources.   So I’ve been looking them over and sticking my toe in and testing out the waters, seeing how much I’ve forgotten over the years.  I never went to college.

I read something on a forum, someone mentioned that they had once been very obsessed with themselves, and once they had made the decision to stop being so self obsessed, life became so much easier.  That really hit home.  Hard to hear, but oh, so true.  So I’ve been trying to stop being so damn self obsessed, and I’ve been trying to stop dwelling on the obstacles in my way.  They just tend to bog me down and stop me in my tracks.

All of this scares the hell out of me.

I get knocked down, but I get up again…

I need to care for myself better than I have been.  We had to put our 17 year old dog to sleep last Saturday.  I haven’t allowed myself to grieve because I’ve wanted to be strong for my family.  Due to the economy my husbands job has taken a hit and we are not doing well financially.  I had to part with my guitar, hopefully temporarily,  but I don’t know if that will be the case.  My guitar has been my faithful companion since I was a young girl.  It’s been my outlet.  I have put on the mask of indifference but in reality I’m ashamed that it’s come to this.

One common thread in my spiritual quest has been Buddhist meditation, strangely enough.  The treatment center that I went to used mindfulness as part of their tools of recovery and mindfulness is a core part of DBT skills.

I have been doing a lot of thinking about choices and paths and such.  I feel sort of like a modern Hecate at the crossroads, but I’m no goddess, I’m just a crone stuck between a rock and a hard place.  Anyway, I chose to start climbing out of that hard place in the midst of the shame and yuck.  I chose to use the Buddhist Metta meditation.

My understanding of the Metta meditation is rusty, and probably very simple at best.  Here is what I understand it to be.  It is the loving-kindness meditation.  First, we are to direct loving-kindness toward ourselves.  Loving-kindness is defined as the sort of love that a mother would feel towards a newborn baby.

So I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths; I follow my breath in and out.  I breath in and silently say:

May I be filled with loving-kindness.

I breath in and out and I imagine what it would be like to feel loving-kindness toward myself.

This is very difficult for me.  I am used to hating myself.  Loving myself actually hurts.  But if I am to live, I have to do this.

I follow my breath for a few breaths.

The next step in the meditation goes like this: May I be well.  This refers to physical health.  I silently repeat this, and imagine what this would be like as I watch the breath.

May I be well.

May I be at peace and at ease of well being.  This refers to emotional health and day to day living, for example, may all your traffic lights be green, may you enter the short check out lanes at the grocery store, etc.

May I be at peace and have ease of well being.

May I be happy.  This seems so simple, doesn’t it.  But for me it’s one of the hardest to fulfill.  It’s a wish.  I breath,

May I be happy.

Once we’re done going through this with ourselves, we are to direct the meditation toward someone we love, then someone we are familiar with, then maybe someone we don’t really know but interact with like the checkout clerk at the store.  Then perhaps someone we dislike, going outward from there until we are able to do the meditation for the whole universe.

The Metta meditation is more complex than this, but this is a good  beginning point to practice.  Beliefnet has a good audio meditation with Sharon Salzburg that is very good.

Mindfulness has been proven to be healing and beneficial in so many ways.  I need to do this regularly.  Why is it so   easy to be addicted to harmful crap, like alcohol, or drugs but not meditation??

trying to make sense of this mess

In therapy tonight, I brought a copy of my last post and had my t read it.  I’m not entirely sure what he thought of it.  He thanked me for sharing it with him and assured me that he had no intention of saving me. (I hope he meant this purely in the Christian sense, I must admit that I have a fantasy that I will be saved by someone….) What I wrote probably didn’t make any sense.  I had hoped that he would get a better understanding of the cost of losing my faith, that it had far reaching ramifications, and is a wound that needs to be healed.

Whenever I put myself out there and share my heart, I feel exposed.  So now my thoughts are filled with self denigrating commentary about what I wrote.

I’m trying to shut that critical voice up so I can process our session.  T was trying to convey Christ’s suffering on the cross and that is our calling.  He spoke of John of the Cross and his dark night of the soul, how mountain top experiences can become an idol.  I countered with Jesus proclaiming that His yoke is easy, His burden light.

T then went on to question what exactly prompted me to make the leap from questioning and doubt to loss of faith.  I don’t remember anymore.

But there is an idea that is slowly taking shape and I would really love to try and develop this idea into something coherent.

I remember praying over and over again for God to change me, to make me whole, to purge all  that I judged as unworthy from my being.  Because nothing good could possibly come from me. I hated who I was.  I had blamed myself for all that was wrong in my life, and condemned who I was as unworthy of love and forgiveness and begged for God to change me into someone worthy.  I was the judge of worth and I did not pass.

And this is even hard to write out, it goes against my very being to even consider it.  But here goes:

Maybe God didn’t answer my prayer because He didn’t see me in the same light.  Perhaps God created me with this particular temperament, with this way of thinking and reasoning, with this doubt and skepticism, with this temper and sensitivity as a part of his perfect creation. That perhaps God has a higher purpose for those traits, that they didn’t need so much purging and removal but rather refinement and discipline.

The idea that I could be acceptable in Gods sight was absurd and rejected out of hand.  When I cried out to God to change me, that I hated what and who I was, it was a prayer that God would not grant.  I interpreted the silence as God’s rejection of me, and eventually as proof of non-existence.

The idea that I could be worthy is so filled with pain and sorrow that I can’t make myself believe it. In fact I fight against the notion. But why does the idea that God might see me as good and worthy of his love hurt so much?  So I have to get as far away from that idea as I can, because the ocean of pain this idea brings threatens to drown me. This notion of Divine Love feels both terrible and terrifying and hurts so much that I’m afraid it will literally consume me, that it will be unbearable.

And on the flip side, my ever present inner critic is telling me what a stupid, gullible ass I am.  That there really is nothing good in me, that I am being very presumptuous to think that God could possibly have a higher purpose for me and my self imposed suffering.  IF there is a god.

As revival mania took over our church, services degenerated into emotional masturbation sessions, stoked by the repetitive singing of choruses and speaking in tongues and strange repetitive body movements like retarded Whirling Dervishes, such as the chicken ladies who liked to jerk their bodies like chickens when they walked, Revival Rita who rocked in her chair, arms bent at the elbow and sort of moving up and down like pistons on an engine,  Karate Joe who would do “karate chops in the Spirit,” and Turtle Man who would sort of pull his head into his neck and giggle uncontrollably to name just a few. I admit that I laughed AT them and enjoyed the show most of the time.  It got old really fast, though.  This wasn’t feeding my spirit.  It was bullshit.  I felt like the boy who proclaimed that the Emperor Who Wore No Clothes really WAS naked.

Church became a farce.  Somewhere in the midst of revival madness I lost my mind and was hospitalized. My faith was rocked to the core, and I was mad.  I wanted answers and looked for them in Church and was disgusted with what I saw. I had just been through hell and couldn’t find my way back, had lost my mind, was just out of the nut hut and wanted to kill myself and there was Karate Joe, chopping away in the Spirit. And the revival minister could only find it in his heart to preach on tithing and offerings, reminding his revved up, chicken walking, karate chopping followers of what happened to Ananias and Sapphira when they held back from giving god his due.

I came to believe that Church was a popularity contest and I lost yet again.  That answers to prayer, tangible answers seemed to belong to a certain vocal group in the form of generous gifts from anonymous members of the congregation, while my prayers for grocery and gas money fell on deaf ears. Not that I saw God as The Divine Piggy Bank, but it seemed to come up a lot in church. I could not accept that the divine freak show that was Sunday Service was representative of any kind of Heaven that I wanted to be a part of.

So between this particular church culture, the charismatic, revival/laughter movement, fundamentalist atmosphere combined with my particular baggage equaled spiritual disaster. I expected to find the Body of Christ when I went to church, not understanding that this Body, the Church whom Christ loves as His bride, consists of imperfect men and women.

Wounds of the Spirit

Never Shall I Forget

Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, that turned my life into one long night seven times sealed.
Never shall I forget that smoke.
Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bodies I saw transformed into smoke under a silent sky.
Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith for ever.
Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me for all eternity of the desire to live.
Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.
Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live
as long as God Himself.
Never.

Elie Wiesel

I cannot fathom the horrors that Elie Wiesel and the multitude of others endured during the Holocaust.

I was doing some much needed cleaning today and came across an old notebook in which I had copied this poem by Elie Wiesel.  I really hesitated to include it in this post; my experiences do not even come close to the suffering of the victims of the Holocaust.

My suffering has been minuscule compared to that. I’m unsure if I should use this poem as an example of the void that the loss of faith, the murder of God has left in my life.

Last session, my t wanted me to read a book in the the Martyrs Song series .  I chose the second book in the series, When Heaven Weeps. This book begins with a very graphic depiction of the cruelty of war, of persecution and brutality and enduring faith.  As I read, my heart was in my throat and I cried.

When the symbolism in the story bore witness to God’s presence amid the gratuitous, brutal beating of the innocent, I had to stop reading and suppress deep pain and mourning for the loss of my God, the loss of hope. I cried but I couldn’t tear myself away.   I yearned for the presence of God in my life and I mourned the death of my faith all over again.

Since therapy last week, I’ve had the song, Jesus, Lover Of My Soul stuck in my head.  I find myself humming it, singing the lyrics that I remember, (and then my mind starts in on that stupid McDonald’s fillet-o-fish commercial with the singing fish: Give me back my fillet-o-fish’ give me one now…)

Last night as I was reading this book, one of the main characters in the story, Ivena, was humming the tune of Jesus Lover Of My Soul.

Coincidence?  Since my book is a Kindle edition, I don’t have quick, easy access to the publishing date.  I have been out of the Christian music scene for 12 years now.  I have no idea if that song is still popular or used regularly as a worship song in churches anymore.

Like many others, music touches my soul.  Music can stoke the flames of darkness or light, music carries my spirit on its wings.  When I became a Christian, I used to play my guitar for hours at a time, often as an unspoken prayer and communion with what I thought was God.

I began playing guitar 30 years ago, it defines me in many ways. It had been a constant source of joy and gives my life meaning. I stopped playing my guitar when I lost my faith. I’ve tried to play every now and then but the notes  fall off my fingers and onto the floor, muted, empty, void of meaning, void of spirit.  My spirit is dead and leaves my music cold, lifeless, empty.

Last week, I played my guitar one night for 2 hours straight.  My spirit had come alive and found release after many, many years of silence.

I don’t know where this is leading me, if anywhere.  Frankly I tend to think that I would be on God’s shit list if there is any truth to the Bible.  You know, the parts about millstones tied around ones neck, blaspheming the Holy Spirit and all that. In my rage and feelings of betrayal when my God was murdered, I’ve lashed out in anger and railed against Him many, many times, to many, many people.

DBT and therapy tomorrow.  I’m not sure what, if anything, I’ll tell him about all of this.  I don’t want any pressure from him or anyone else about being “saved.” But I know that this wound needs to be healed so I can move on.

struggles

Therapy has been difficult.  I’ve been dealing with ancient wounds.  Making progress is slow, I really don’t want to face the pain so I shut down.  T is trying to move me forward and backward at the same time it seems.

T brought up the subject of hope yesterday.  I don’t have a good relationship with hope.  T kept pressing me as to why I reject the notion of hope.  It has to do with my loss of faith.  The loss of hope and the loss of faith went hand in hand.

Then we began talking about religion.  I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking religion with him.  He is a Christian, a charismatic Christian at that.  I think he works with youth at his church.

He asked me how I lost faith and I went into it a little.  I think he understands that it wasn’t an intellectual decision on my part, in other words, I wasn’t looking at apologetics with a critical eye, trying to reconcile my basis for belief intellectually.  I’m not that smart.  I simply came to realize that Christianity did not work, not for me at any rate.

When I told t that I bought the line that God was the answer to my problems, t acted as if that was unreasonable.  That floored me.  He seemed incredulous that I would expect God to intervene in my life and be the catalyst for positive change.  I challenged him on that, but he held his ground.  I want to discuss this with him next time.

I became a born again Christian at a very dark time in my life.  My marriage was in trouble, there was physical and emotional abuse and we fought all the time.  I had 2 young girls under the age of 4 who were (and still are) precious to me.  I was isolated and alone and sinking into depression.  I could see no options for my future and lived under a profound sense of futility.

One night, as I was channel surfing I came across the Catholic channel, EWTN, and saw a little old nun with great big glasses wearing a brown habit, hopping mad and ranting about the movie, “The Last Temptation of Christ.” It was Mother Angelica I later found out.  I admit, I stopped to watch purely because I got a kick out of seeing a nun rip into someone like she was doing.  My only experience with nuns thus far had been seeing them walk in town when I went to visit my cousin during the summer.  I was fascinated with them, they wore full habits and carried an aura of holiness about them. Mother Angelica busted every stereotype that I held about nuns that night.

So I would periodically tune into EWTN to see who Mother Angelica was going to rip into next.  At some point, I began to listen to what she had to say.  I began to crave this peace that passes understanding that she spoke of, the love of Christ in our hearts and forgiveness.

She spoke of forgiveness one night, stating that through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross , our sins are forgiven, they are erased, gone forever. I had been carrying around a burden of guilt from past and present sin in my life. It sunk in that forgiveness is final.  It’s a done deal.  Sins are no more when we accept Jesus as our savior.

It sunk into my soul.  I was forgiven.  I bought a Bible and read it.  I watched various preachers on TV.  I heard the message from many sources that God is the answer.  I began to believe that God would be my answer.  He would deliver me from this life, from the hopelessness and isolation, from my sinful past, He would be my redemption.

I have always had a hard time fitting in. Friendship has always been elusive to me. I longed for a feeling of fellowship, of being part of a community. I prayed to God to change me, to transform the awkward, ugly, lonely, bitchy, clueless, hateful, spiteful person that I was into a Godly woman.   I began to go to church, expecting to be welcomed with open arms, with the hope that I would find a home, so to speak.

I longed to feel accepted, to find fellowship.  This wasn’t a mere longing for friends. It was a plea to be set free from the loneliness and isolation that had punctuated my life.  I had dug myself into a hole that I couldn’t get out of.  I really thought that God would answer my prayer.  I felt hope and staked my life on it, because I really was dying inside.

I tried for a few years to find peace and happiness, knowing that it would be found in God through Jesus Christ.  I prayed.  I repented.  I read the Bible. I went to church.  I became active in church.  I still felt so unclean, so different from everyone else. I didn’t speak the language, I didn’t dress the part.

I struggled.  I was depressed. When I sought counsel from peers and pastors, I was told that I was trying too hard, that I wasn’t trying hard enough, I was told to “let go and let God” whatever that is supposed to mean.  I had demons cast out of me, demons of rebellion, of depression, of whatever demon was fashionable at the moment.  By the way, I never felt any different when the demons were supposedly cast out.  I just felt stupid.

I prayed harder, read my Bible, listened to Christian music and read Christian books.  Despite all that, I remained isolated, filled with self hatred.

Two more children and a few years later, I broke.  I fell apart.  I found myself in the psych ward.

Where was God now? I was duped. I could no longer talk a walk that I wasn’t living. I was not a successful Christian, it simply did not work in my life the way that it worked in the lives of others. I lost faith. I lost hope. I carried a mantle of shame and guilt.  I lived in a state of hopelessness, a place of desolation and despair, emptiness and anxiety, a place of endings, never beginnings.

Even though I was now on antidepressants and mood stabilizers, I continued to fall.  The depression that followed was profound and severe.  Big chunks of time are missing, I have no memory of my youngest son’s first steps, his first words. I was easily overwhelmed with even the simplest of household tasks. I was afraid to be alone with my boys, who were 1 and 3 years old at the time. Making dinner was too much for my fractured mind.  It wasn’t until almost a year later that I began to crawl out of that hell.

It’s been many years since then.  I bear the scars from that fight.  Latching on to hope again just seems masochistic to me.  I don’t see the point of opening myself up to another fall.  I don’t think I would survive it.

A tearful reunion

The trip was a success.  We were able to transfer Gramma into the car with a little bit of difficulty.  Her mobility is very limited.  She has little strength or flexibility in her legs and that made it tricky.

Gramma is 90 years old.  Her health is great right now.  Her hearing is excellent and her mind is sharp.  She does become confused at times, but not as a general rule.  It is her mobility issues that keep her in the nursing home.  She says that she feels good and is in no pain, but she wishes that she would just die in her sleep.

She gets bored, the days are too long with nothing to fill them.  She can’t do her handwork anymore.  She is dependent on staff to get her to the bathroom, to get her up and dressed, to get her in her wheelchair and back in bed at night.  She doesn’t drink enough fluids because the nursing home is short staffed and they can’t always get her to the bathroom in time.  The blow to her dignity must be great.

We arrived in town sooner than we expected.  Gramma and my Aunt cried when they saw each other- for the first time in 2 years. It became apparent that Gramma carries a lot of guilt.  She said to me that she hasn’t been the best Gramma,  she expressed guilt at being a bad mother.  She expressed a lot of worry over her daughter’s health.  It was sad to see her distressed and not at peace with her life.   We visited for 3 hours.  It began to snow, first just flurries, then it started coming down in earnest.

The drive home was draining.  That part of the state is very flat, the highways often close in the winter due to ground blizzards, and the visibility was awful.  The snow was boiling and swirling on the road, gusts of wind would kick it up in clouds making it impossible to see the road and the traffic around me.  It took us twice as long to get home as it did to get there.

We got her back to the nursing home and settled in, then we went to a local restaurant and brought dinner to the nursing home and ate with her.  Gramma expressed her gratitude to us for bringing her to her see her daughter.  She wanted to give me something in return for doing this for her, but she has nothing.  I told her that I love her and was happy to do this for her.

I hope that Gramma can find forgiveness for herself, I hope that she finds peace in her life.  I don’t know how that can be accomplished.  She also expressed the desire to see her sister again. Her sister has Alzheimer’s and doesn’t recognize her own daughter so no one thinks that a visit would be possible or really be beneficial.  It seems that Gramma needs to find some sort of closure with her relationship with her sister, I don’t know how that can be done, either.

My concern now is that she wont have a peaceful death unless she can find peace with her life, some forgiveness of herself, some easing of the burden of guilt that she carries.

the death of a loved one and magical moments

My grandparents represented a source of stability and unconditional love in the midst of my sometimes chaotic, painful childhood.  I loved my grandparents dearly.

My grandmothers death was the first death of a loved one that I experienced in my life.  I was married and had two young children when she died.

I ended up going to the funeral alone.  I don’t remember the 3 hour drive, but I remember worrying that I wouldn’t make it in time to the viewing.  I needed to see her.

When I arrived at the funeral home, still rushing and anxious from the drive, my grampa saw me.  I went over to him and he put his arms out and embraced me, saying, “Gramma’s gone” and I began to cry.

The funeral was held at the Finnish Apostolic Lutheran Church in a little town in northern Minnesota.  The church was packed, literally standing room only.  Seeing the impact that Gramma had on all those people, evidenced by their presence in church was heart warming and in a way, healing.

At one point in the service, our family stood at the altar, arm in arm as hymns were sung in English and in Finnish.  The raw emotion being expressed and the purity of that grief is another thing I will never forget.  Something beautiful and magical was taking place as we gathered, arm in arm in song and in grief, offering our sorrow, our pain, our memories and our love to Grandma and to her God.  There was a purity and holiness and oneness to that expression of grief that I will never forget.  I felt a firm sense of roots, of family, of unity that I haven’t felt since.

I have a recording on a cassette tape of my gramma singing her favorite hymn, of her interacting with other family members.  It’s a priceless treasure.

Gramma has shown up at different times in my life since her death. Synchronicities, songs, strange happenings lead me to conclude that she is there watching, and that it will be ok.

The first time something strange happened was about 10 years after her death.  I was feeling nostalgic, missing Gramma and her cooking.  Specifically the Finnish flat bread that she used to make.  I had as close to a recipe as you could get (she didn’t use a cookbook) and was trying to make it myself.

My daughter was playing the piano.  On top of the piano was an anniversary clock with a broken pendulum.  As I had the bread in the oven, and my daughter was playing, we noticed that the pendulum was moving.  For the first time in many years.  She stopped playing and it kept on moving. It worked for 3 or 4 days, then became still once again. We have no explanation for this. I like to think that Gramma was saying Hi.

I have a son who has Asperger Syndrome.  I had always known that something wasn’t right but could never put my finger on what exactly was wrong.  A child study was done by the school and further educational and medical testing was done.  The burden of this fell squarely on my shoulders, my husband wanted nothing to do with it.

One day, after I had taken my son to get his large muscle development evaluated by a physical therapist, I called my sister on the phone to tell her how it went.  As I was talking, I heard this strange sound.  I told my sister to hold on and I walked into the living room and heard my gramma singing.  The stereo had somehow not only turned itself on, it also began to play the tape of my gramma singing all by itself.  I cannot explain that, either.  I concluded that my gramma wanted to let me know that she was watching over us.

That was a few years ago, I haven’t had any visits since, but I’ve had a few dreams in which I believe my gramma communicated her loving presence and reassurance in troubled times.

…

Enough politics for now.

Here’s some catching up…

I’ve been practicing a lot of urge surfing (a DBT skill actually) these past few weeks.  I want to do anything to stop me from feeling.  What is it about feeling that I’m so damn afraid of anyway?

The extremely large demon that I struggle with the most is the notion that I am utterly and completely alone in this world.  That I cannot reach out to others and ask for support or companionship or a sympathetic ear.  This has been a lifelong struggle that I need to change.

It’s like there are two of me battling, the one who needs others in her life and the me who is terrified of being hurt and rejected and becomes paralyzed by fear.  I guess there is another me that is destructive and beats down my attempts at recovery. I’m beginning to sound like I’m Sybil…

When I’ve visited web forums that I belong to, wanting to connect with others, that old fear of rejection and the belief that I’m unworthy of support rears it’s ugly head and my mind goes blank.  I’ve been unable to fight through it and can’t think of what to post. Sometimes, a lot of the time actually, I just feel lonely and need to connect and something stops me from reaching out.

On the spiritual side of life, I’ve been making some progress.  Music played a huge roll in my spirituality many years ago, and it’s playing a roll in bringing me back, years later.  I’m redefining my concept of God and Spirit, letting go of the intense anger and resentment that I’ve held against my old church and understanding of God.

I’ve been plunking out old worship songs on my harp, songs that I loved and that I don’t associate with the fundamentalist dogma of the church.  It’s been a wonderful experience.

…

Good things:

• I exercised today
• I got some housework done
• I played my harp and connected with spirit
• I ate a little better than I have been
• I took care of the checkbook

Years ago, when I first felt the call of Spirit, music played a huge role in bringing me closer to God.  At least until I joined a church that totally invalidated my experiences and interpretations of God.  And I stupidly allowed them to crush my spirit and quench the Spirit.

I found myself picking out old worship songs by ear on the harp again tonight.  I have only been playing harp for a short time, I’ve got a lot of learning yet to do, but I felt more connected with Spirit than I’ve felt in a long time, picking out those songs.

Years ago it was guitar, years later it’s the harp.  Strange, huh?

I read somewhere that if the god you believe in is an asshole, you need to fire him and get a new one.  That is what I’m trying to do.  Trying to redefine a lot of what I thought was truth.

I do know some things, the god/dess that I eventually will have faith in will not be something that a fundamentalist, bible thumping christian would ever recognize.

I have to take some responsibility here for believing in that kind of a god.  I had a choice and I chose to listen to others, rather than my inner self, when it came to faith.  I blamed others for so many years, I need to take a good look at my part in this, too.

I believe that God, Spirit, whatever you call him/her/it, is above all the embodiment of truth, love, compassion.  And these attributes are not compatible with condemnation, bigotry, hypocrisy, rigidity, narrow mindedness and vitriol, or stagnation.

I wonder where this is going to take me?

…

When I first felt the pull of spirit, I was in my early 20’s, married with 2 preschoolers.  I heard the gospel message and understood it for the first time and felt years of guilt and shame melt from my soul.

I was hungry for more.  I became interested in the Catholic Church, watched EWTN faithfully, discovered John Michael Talbot and found release through playing his music on my guitar.

I began reading the bible.  I tried to glean wisdom from its passages, interpreting what I felt it must be saying as I read.  I felt driven.

I sought conversion to the Catholic church for a short time, and then became interested in a charismatic, non-denominational church near by.

I learned that god was my answer.  I thought that at church I would find the acceptance and friendships that  had eluded me all of my life.  I had hope for the first time in a long time.

I began going to a bible study hosted at the home of a church member.  It was there that I discovered that my interpretations, my songs, my ideas were wrong.  The god that spoke through those church members wasn’t at all happy with me, my ideas and my worship.

As I attended services, I noticed that the members used jargon that was unfamiliar and unnatural to me.  I couldn’t speak the language that they spoke, it felt phony.  I never did find acceptance at church.  I soon realized that church was like any place else, full of cliques and gossips and favorites and outcasts.

Being a charismatic church, so called gifts of the spirit were freely expressed.  Speaking in tongues, prophecy, singing in the spirit and being slain in the spirit were the ones manifest the most.  I prayed that I, too, would be given these gifts, to no avail.  I was taught that true Christians were freely given these gifts.  I wondered what was wrong with me.

Church members often gave testimony of the great things god was doing in their lives.  Things like giving them money in the form of unexpected checks, or maybe groceries when they had no money to buy any.  I prayed for these same things and was ignored.

The message that I ultimately took away was that I was wrong, my prayers, my worship, my interpretation, my being, was unacceptable in gods sight.

I began playing guitar on the worship team, thinking that using the gifts that god had given me would please him.  I tried to fit into the mold that this church demanded of its members.  I couldn’t.

I became very depressed and was hospitalized.  I was very, very angry with god and the church.  Why didn’t he answer my prayers?  What was wrong with me?

Ultimately I rejected this god and the church.  This new god that the church had me believe was the one true god was nothing like the call of the spirit that I heard years before.  I wanted nothing to do with it.