MY QUEST FOR GOD - PART II (REPOST)

The summer of bible camp was "The Summer of Love."  How ironic I thought, while others everywhere were tuning in, turning on and dropping out, I was trying to understand basic human nature and to find out if God really does exist. From a child's perspective, I grew up thinking if the people who claim they love me and want to protect me will hurt me, then what will the rest of the world do to me? That isn't actually the right stuff to guide a person into adulthood, but nonetheless it guided me into being clueless where romantic relationships are concerned. The "funny" thing about it is that I've gone through life waiting and wanting someone to prove me wrong, but to date no one has. My logic says since people are human and humans are flawed, anyone is bound to hurt/disappoint someone else, but on a deeper level...one still filled with idealism and good things that can't be destroyed by this cesspool called life, I choose to hold onto the belief that love is a good thing and in many situations is the only thing that keeps us afloat. So until love comes my way, I'll just stay in my canoe and hope I don't lose my paddles. 

After that summer when I fell short of receiving God's grace, I turned to trying to understand evil instead. When Anton LaVey's Satanic Bible was hot off the presses, I purchased one and read it from cover to cover hoping for a lightbulb moment. Needless to say, it was just another book filled with words written by man and it didn't explain the great mysteries of life any more than the Christian Bible had. My spiritual journey I suppose some would say was corrupted by my inability to believe what I couldn't see. Instead of blindly believing, I questioned EVERYTHING instead. If God loved us so much then why do bad things happen to good people? Where are the miracles? Why are there wars, famine and disease? No one seemed to be able to adequately answer these things through the Biblical verses they would throw my way. I needed more than meaningless words on a page to help me swallow anything I was told about God. I needed more than just empty written words to make God a reality.

Eventually my salvation was found in my experimentation with drugs. As that experimentation deepened, I found certain drugs had a numbing effect. That feeling was one my whole body craved.... especially my emotions. Nothing bothered me as long as I stayed high, so by the tender age of 14, I stayed high ALL the time. I could easily sit back and blame my choices on my genetic background. I'm sure the long line of alcoholism that runs on both sides of my family would be enough of reason to say I didn't stand a chance not to be a substance abuser. Yes, the odds were against me, yet somehow I know that's not why I changed the path I had walked as a small child. I didn't begin life as an addict. You see, I actively sought out finding something that would make me numb. It took me many years to realize that without drugs I would have been a much uglier statistic. I choose drugs to stay alive if that makes any sense. They didn't choose me. 

Looking back on it, I call the next 16 years of my life "my leap of faith". They say God looks out for fools and drunks, but I think He/She has a special fondness for all addicts. Addictions, whatever they may be, cause an emotional bankruptcy in the person. No love is greater than that of a person and their drug of choice. When I say "drug," I include food, sex, gambling, shopping, work or whatever it is a person uses to escape. All other things in life come second regardless of what we try to tell ourselves and everyone else who is in earshot. That moment, at the climax when nothing else matters, I found freedom from pain and a facade that made me think nothing could ever hurt me again. Many years later, when the truth stared me in the face daring me to look elsewhere, I realized the truth and only the truth would set me free. 

MY QUEST FOR GOD - PART I (REPOST)

My first exposure to religion was as a young child. At the age of 5, I was baptized into The First Congregational Church in Brewer, Maine. For all those not familiar with the Congregational Church, a quick history lesson should refresh your memory. Does the word Puritan mean anything to you? It was a quaint church overlooking the Penobscot River. The beautiful stain glass windows illuminated the interior as the morning sun rose in the sky. I went to church with my family on Sundays, sat quietly and very still on the pew mimicking what the others did when they did it, yet I can't remember a word of what was ever preached in that church. My only memory is the feeling that there was more to it than what I was being told. I wanted to be touched by the real hand of God, but somehow, I always eluded His omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent grasp.

By the time I was 11, often, I walked to church alone or with my best friend, Margie who I asked to accompany me after she'd spend the night at my house. Her mother was dying from Hodgkin's disease, so she sought comfort elsewhere during that time in her life. My door was always open and I welcomed her companionship (and still do after all these years). One Wednesday night she asked me to go to church with her. But it was Wednesday...who goes to church on Wednesday? I soon found out. The Baptist preacher bellowed from the pulpit condemning all sinners to burn eternally in the flames of Hell. As he spoke and thumped his fist on the pulpit to drive home his words, I was certain he was speaking to me personally. I was doomed to burn in Hell if I didn't seek out Salvation, so when my friend asked me to attend Bible camp with her during that summer, I eagerly accepted. Maybe God would reveal himself to me at Bible camp.

We met in old army style tents outside a host church on Eddington Pond for various daily religious classes and activities. Each day, we were expected to memorize a new Bible verse. When that feat wasn't accomplished, off the person went to see the preacher. They always would return subdued and extremely repentant. When they upped memorizing the verses from 1 to 2, I panicked. I had trouble focusing and remembering the words. So naturally, I froze when I was asked to stand and recite my verses. My mind went blank and the interior of the large tent seemed darker and filled with impending doom. I felt true shame as I walked to the preacher’s office inside the church. I remember my long, slender legs shaking and feeling weak as I entered his office after knocking. I stood before him looking down at the floor.

At first, he spoke softly, and I lifted my eyes to meet his. He peered into my soul and I shivered. He stood and walked around me, then laid his hand on the back of my head. I trembled as he prayed for me and it seemed my fear ignited something in him. His voice slowly became louder and louder until it filled the whole room. I was a sinner and without a doubt, I was going to burn in Hell for all eternity.

As the tears ran down my face, I was instructed to kneel. I felt almost relieved to stop standing. My legs were weak and trembling. I cried and prayed and asked God's forgiveness. My pleading was frantic. I asked God to enter me and fill me with His Spirit. I truly wanted His Grace, but the only grace I would receive that day was being bent over a desk and being told to bare myself. As the pastor spanked my bare bottom, his voice trembled as he prayed for me. Each time his hand met my flesh, it lingered for a moment. When he finally stopped, he stood behind me while I repeated the verses.

I could feel the intensity of his eyes gazing down upon me. Each time he said, "say them again," his voice trembled, and his breathing quickened. Suddenly, his voice changed and the words that came from him were ones I had never heard before. He was speaking in some foreign language I didn’t understand. And then silence. It was finally over! By the time I covered my bare bottom, my skin was so tender it hurt to have the fabric of my panties brush across my bottom.

As I walked back to the tent, the realization filled me that something had just happened, but I wasn’t quite sure what that something was. Did God finally “touch” me? Had I finally received His Grace? It wasn't until many years later when I awoke screaming from a nightmare that I realized what had happened that day and I wondered how many others like me had been filled with the good pastor’s Spirit of God.

THE SUMMER OF LOVE

The summer of bible camp was "the summer of love" (1967). How ironic I thought, while others everywhere were tuning in, turning on and dropping out, I was trying to understand basic human nature and to find out if God really does exist. From a child's perspective, I grew up thinking if the people who claim they love me and want to protect me will hurt me, then what will the rest of the world do to me? The funny thing about it is that I've gone through life waiting and wanting someone to prove me wrong. My logic says since people are human and humans are flawed, anyone is bound to hurt/disappoint someone else, but on a deeper level (one still filled with idealism and good things that can't be destroyed by this cesspool called life) I choose to hold onto the belief that love is a good thing and in many situations is the only thing that keeps us afloat.

After that summer when I fell short of receiving God's grace, I turned to trying to understand evil instead. When the Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey was hot off the presses, I purchased one and read it from cover to cover hoping for a lightbulb moment. Needless to say, it was just another book filled with words written by man and it didn't explain the great mysteries of life any more than The Bible had. My spiritual journey I suppose some would say was corrupted by my inability to believe what I couldn't see. Instead of blindly believing I questioned instead. If God loved us so much then why does bad things happen to good people? Where are the miracles? Why are there wars, fathom and disease? No one seemed to be able to adequately answer these things through the verses they would throw my way. I needed more than words on a page to swallow anything I was told about God.

Eventually my salvation was found in my experimentation with drugs. As that experimentation deepened, I found certain drugs had a numbing effect. That feeling was one my whole body craved.... especially my emotions. Nothing bothered me as long as I stayed high, so by the age of 14 I stayed high all the time. I could easily sit back and blame my choices on my genetic background. I'm sure the long line of alcoholism that runs on both sides of my family would be enough of reason to say I didn't stand a chance not to be a substance abuser, yet somehow I know that's not why I changed the path I had walked as a small child. You see, I actively sought out finding something that would make me numb. It took me many years to realize that without drugs I would have been a much uglier statistic. I chose drugs. They didn't choose me.

Looking back on it, I call the next 16 years of my life "my leap of faith". They say God looks out for fools and drunks, but I think He/She has a special fondness for all addicts. Addictions, whatever they may be, cause an emotional bankruptcy in the person. No love is greater than that of a person and their drug of choice. When I say "drug", I include food, sex, gambling, shopping, work or whatever it is a person uses to escape. All other things in life come second regardless of what we tell ourselves or everyone else. That moment, at the climax when nothing else matters, I found freedom from pain and a facade that made me think nothing could hurt me again. Many years later, when the truth stared me in the face daring me to look elsewhere, I realized the truth would set me free.

Gratitude statement: I'm thankful for the fleeting moments of the truth I see.