True Love

At 25, I overcame a longtime fear of being underwater and finally got baptized. For several years after that, I had a tumultuous relationship with God because I had assumed that baptism, prayer, and Bible reading equaled never experiencing another hardship. Once I was schooled about the dangers of assuming, I grew frustrated. I felt God had lied to me. That’s when I started fluctuating between times of being deeply in love with Him and times when I refused to take His calls. The ebb and flow of my feelings for Him was always in direct correlation with how everything else in my life was progressing. Isn’t that always the case? I mean we live in a society that loves to place blame and, for a long time, my shoulders balked at the idea of bearing any responsibility for what wasn’t right with me.

Our worst trial separation came about four years ago. On that day, I was certain that I’d come to a very important and definite life-altering realization: that I hated God. I hated Him and all His deceptive righteousness and I decided to no longer deal with Him. I even told Him so; parked on the side of the road (I drive when I need to clear my head), angry and crying, I yelled at the top of my lungs, “I hate you! I hate you and I’m done! I give up on you!” Then I waited for the thunder and lightning bolt from Heaven that I was certain would come – and perhaps hoped would come. I mean this was God, after all; you don’t go around telling Him you hate Him and expect to live. Except nothing happened; I didn’t even feel a spiritual slap to the back of the head. Many people would have been grateful, and yet, I wasn’t. I grew angrier. Oh, I know He’s not still ignoring me! What do I have to do for a little quality time around here?! I pray, I beg, now I’m acting out but still getting ignored? You suck Lord!

For the next three days it became my life’s mission to turn my back on God as I felt He’d turned His back on me. Now, I hadn’t quite figured out how that was going to work since a portion of my being still believed Him to be the beginning and end of everything. But I was convinced that He was also a liar, a hypocrite, and sucked as a parent. I even thought of starting my own religion based on the belief that yes, God does exist, but He is unworthy of His godliness. Instead of meeting to praise Him, the practitioners of my religion would congregate once a month to talk about what an all around pain in the butt God could be. I envisioned something of a support group for the abandoned children of uncaring or disinterested deities. Feasible? Of course not, and I knew that; but at the time, I was too busy stomping my feet like the impetuous, pouting child turned angry adult that I was.

Why was I angry at God? Back then it varied from day-to-day: He allowed an incompetent coworker to succeed while I struggled; He made me baby-faced with the cleavage of a twelve year old instead of shaped like Halle Berry; He gave men penises and the audacity to think that such a ridiculous looking thing means they own the world; the cute manager at my local shoe store turned out to be married and I took it as another sign that I’d never find anyone (even though my feminist-minded side thought it weak of me to admit that I wanted someone). Most days it didn’t take much for God to top my s**t list – right above drivers who refuse to turn right on red and cashiers who lick their fingers before counting money back to me.

Now as a born and bred Southerner, you can imagine that hating God was not something I found easy to do. I, like many in the region, grew up in the church, being taught to think of God as our “Father.” However, in my world, fathers lie, cheat and break hearts. Fathers drink, hit, and destroy all that’s good. Fathers make promises they don’t keep, seemingly incapable of understanding that their behavior has consequences. So, how could I trust a Heavenly Father who sometimes intentionally takes me through trials and tribulations, even if He says it’s all to make me stronger?

Anyway, that particular instance of rebellion didn’t last long. He wooed me back, just as He always has – nudging me in the side and whispering, “You done, yet? You know you miss me. C’mon, you know you’ll never do better than me. No one will love you like I do. Repent and let's move on.”

I grudgingly pulled my Bible out of the old trunk I’d hidden it in, convinced that I was never opening its pages again. Ironically, in allowing myself to verbalize my anger at God, I also opened myself to loving Him more and seeking His will – though I’m by no means always on the straight and narrow path (my path tends to wind and cross and double back on itself).

I’m trying to remember that God was not created in man’s image, but vice versa. Just because my father left and broke my heart, doesn’t mean that God will. In fact, it’s the very opposite: God is still here; He’s been here every time, waiting to catch me, guide me, and start me on my way again – provided I’m willing to be caught, guided, and restarted. When I told Him I hated Him, He didn’t respond, “Yeah, well, I’m not feeling you right now, either.” And he didn’t decide to crush me like a bug. He waited me out, knowing I’d be back. If that’s not the ultimate example of His patience and perseverance, then I don’t know what is. I guess He's got it bad for me.