First brush with religion

I was ten and a half (at that age “halves” were important) when my younger brother and I moved to live with my dad and his wife. I had never been to church before and my dad and his bride didn’t attend either. But apparently she was Catholic, and part of a proper upbringing required one to experience Confirmation and Communion. Thus, I was enrolled in classes and taught what was needed in order to be “confirmed” by the church and participate in my first communion.

One fine day, while the faithful nuns were moving my class from one room to the next, I caught a glimpse of an offering plate sitting unattended. It reminded me of when people left Halloween candy in front of the house so that you could just take what you needed. Impulsively, I walked over and took a dollar. Yeah, I know. I broke one of the big ten “thou shalt nots.” Believe me, I was disturbed by it. I had stolen from God! Yet somehow I received the confirmation stamp that secured my ticket through his pearly gates. Whew!

Over time, my brother and I outgrew the need to ride our bikes to church on Sunday mornings while the parents slept in. Occasionally though, I’d attend an event if I knew some cute guys would be there. By fifteen, I was the girl that snuck in the bottle of booze during the church sleepover to make the event more exciting. Yes, I did. I was definitely headed to hell.

Horror-mones!

As in many divorced situations, kid-time was divided between his and hers. My dad was the custodial parent for my brother and me; consequently the school year and most holidays were spent with him and his wife. She was only eleven years my senior and seemed to resent being made a parent at such a young age. As I got older, our relationship became more and more strained. My father was gone quite a bit and when he was home there was constant tension. It was as if an unspoken battle was being waged to insure the she got the attention that she needed from him – even if it was at our expense. Home was not a safe or happy place which made discovering who I was a difficult, if not impossible, pursuit.

Puberty freaked me all out and I was never the same. My teen years were rather tumultuous as I began to try new things on my journey toward self-discovery. I didn’t feel loved so I was open to whatever source would provide it. Boys weren’t simply cute crushes. Their attention became a constant need. Every school day became feeding time as my emotions craved sustenance. I would dread the day ending as the social scene served to counter-balance my feelings of not being wanted. As crazy as it sounds, I even dreaded weekends. Saturday and Sunday brought chores and confinement. I would regularly cry about my life but no one was listening or seemed to care.

My mother became the “vacation” parent as flying from Florida to California for summers was a regular excursion. She was married to a guy that loved to have fun and would organize activities that kept my brother, two sisters and me busy. Our time usually consisted of the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, baseball games at the park, and a lot of house parties. But most importantly, we got to experience freedom! There was no one who belittled, no one who criticized, no one who projected the “unwanted” vibe, no endless string of chores, and nothing that induced fear, condemnation or lack of belonging. I went where I wanted when I wanted and I did what I wanted when I wanted to do it. It was a magnificent amalgamation of little responsibility and minimal consequence. A mixture that, combined with my dysfunction, bred a selfish daring that led to a stealing spree. It was a cheap jewelry but stolen goods none-the-less. Fortunately, I didn’t get busted by the police, but my mom made the discovery and told me to take it all back. So… I took half of it back. I know what you are thinking – she’s definitely headed to hell! Or possibly jail, anyway. These were my thoughts too (minus jail, of course!). Strikes against me were increasing and with them, a heavy burden of guilt.

The year I turned fifteen ended any proverbial ‘age of innocence.’ That summer was spent in California having the time of my life. No boundaries! The coolest parents ever! I lived at party-central where alcohol was readily accessible. What more could a developing teen ask for? Then, like some miracle, I was allowed to try marijuana for the first time with my step-dad’s cousin! Now this was a “religious” experience that I could really get into! But, like all amusement park attractions, every good ride comes to an end. Deflated, I once again boarded a flight back to Florida.

Sophomore year began with trepidation. My closet consisted of fashions dictated by K-Mart so I had to leave super-early for school each morning to run over to my best friend’s house to borrow clothes. She lived in a home sort of governed like my California parent’s and had an older sister that could drive – incredibly valuable! Her parents weren’t around much but they had money to hook her up with the latest trends. It was a good arrangement.

After having a taste of crazy, boundary-less freedom, it was very difficult to be back in the strict confines of the “ward.” I didn’t realize how much I hated being controlled until I had an encounter with liberty. Oh the feeling! And I was completely driven by feelings at this stage of life. Feeling good shifted from merely a want to a necessity. I was all about it! Rebellion of the most intense type arose within me and my actions began to be a reflection of this. Though my words were carefully guarded, my behavior became more daring. I created every excuse to be away from home. Regularly I would sneak out at night to attend beach keg parties, the State Fair, house parties and spend time with friends. Lying became an art form as I creatively explained away any questionable behavior. My grades were slipping and I was regularly grounded, but I didn’t care. It was my life and I wanted to live it!

Second brush with religion

Of course, when you’re on a highway to hell you begin to do drastic things. I ran away from home – twice. My second run away endeavor began on a Wednesday. I went to a friend’s house whose plans that night included youth group. What could I do but attend? The leader of the group was very flirtatious. Not that I was surprised. I was used to attention from guys and in fact craved it. But attention from a church guy, the leader no less, just felt uncomfortable. Still, the night ended with a drive to the beach and a make-out session that could have been more if I had been willing. But I wasn’t. Though many of my friends had given away their virginity, it was one of the few possessions that I still had left. I never made it back to church that Sunday because by Saturday night, my dad and uncle had found me at a party and brought me back home.

On New Year’s Eve, just before my sixteenth birthday, I decided to give away my virginity. The guy I’d chosen was home from college on Christmas break and had all the qualities that I wanted in a guy that was to be my “first.” When it was over, I remember not feeling any different. There was just a sense of loss. He wanted to get together again but I had become angry that the experience hadn’t been more significant. I had endured jokes for being the “prude” one, yet there had been nothing spectacular embodied in the sexual experience. Everything in life seemed to be a let down. I urged my dad to let me move to California to live with my mother. He agreed that it would be for the best. Though I wanted to leave, his acquiescence made me feel that no man wanted me unless I begged for attention or had something they desired. I began to view sex as little more than payment for “services rendered” as I obtained time and attention from a variety of suitors. However, this barter system extracted more than it provided in return. I was desperate to feel loved and valued – though neither emotion viewed me as worthy of its residence.

Jesus makes an entrance

So, I was sixteen and knew nothing about life, yet I knew everything about life! We’re all grown up at sixteen. We’re doing grown-up things like smoking, drinking, having sex, swearing, working, and living under our parent’s roof. Life is a bubble of me-centricity and every small or large event is a “Like, O my God!” or “Shut up!” moment. If you grew up in the 80’s, especially in California, you fully understand. Everything was like totally radical and if it wasn’t then you needed to take a chill pill while adjusting the dial on the tube for your daily dose of MTV. It was an age when being an airhead was both cool and un-cool depending on the crowd.

Moving to California proved to be all that I had dreamed. I had felt like a caged bird guarded by an oppressive cat.  Now freed, I experienced the anxiety of flying. My wings had been clipped for so long that I didn’t know what I was capable of. Little by little I was drawn out as the sky appeared limitless. There was so much to explore! I began to soar but had no idea where my wings would take me. It was both exhilarating and frightening. I was excited to be in an environment that afforded me the freedom to experiment; the freedom to indulge; the freedom to discover “me!”  

 Living the existence of a typical teen, I was enjoying and not enjoying life one day when my mother came home and began talking some Jesus nonsense. It freaked me out because my parents were the partying-type and I rather liked the autonomy that came with their inattentiveness. I chose to ignore this babble until my mother cornered me in the car after a grocery spree and expanded on the need to be saved or something. I was definitely feeling the need to be saved – saved from the conversation! That night I told my step-dad that whatever was wrong with my mother – he needed to fix it. Dabbling in religion was one thing, but letting it control your life? She was nuts. On top of the fanaticism, she decided to institute a more suitable curfew for me, refused to renew my birth control (back when you had to have parent permission), and dove into a discourse of regret at having allowed me access to certain things that she now was going to stop doing. Talk about a party-pooper! My life was ruined.

Feeling as though I had finally established a rhythm that suited me well, I became angry at this Jesus who’d stepped into my mother’s life and ruined it all. Where there had been no battle, regular canon fire ensued as my mom’s new ideals warred with my lifestyle choices. I was determined to fight for what I wanted in whatever manner was necessary. Yet, I couldn’t deny that my mother was changing for the better. She seemed more “adult” somehow, rather than a mere party buddy. She was more confident and directed. I both liked and disliked the new relationship. I wanted a mom but I also wanted to live life my way. Emotionally I became conflicted as my selfishness sparred with a longing to see my mother happy. And for the first time, it appeared that she truly was happy. The fight left me feeling fairly ashamed as someone I really cared about was now a habitual target on my “obstacles to happiness” hit list.

The day my eyes were opened

My mother emerged as the more responsible parent in the home and managed to get my step-dad to attend church. Both of my sisters were young enough to simply go along, so the activity became a family affair. I was hoping this church stuff would one day wear off and the flight that my mother was on would finally land. Not to be. It was like she was on some blissful high that didn’t require a bong. I felt as though a character in a sci-fi flick whose mother’s brain and behavior had been completely taken over by a foreign invader. All of it was just weird! I manipulated my schedule to insure that I had a friend’s house to crash at on Saturday nights so I could avoid the whole “holy” experience.

As was habit, my mother came home one day with a church friend while I was lounging in the living room. They were talking their Jesus talk and I did my best to ignore the conversation. Finally, I resolved not to appear to be anti-social and looked up to greet this woman whose brain had also been hijacked by Jesus. I was surprised to find that she was actually well put together. Her hair was stylish, clothes were somewhat fashionable, and she didn’t have that “Little House on the Prairie” look. Not a Cover Girl by any means but she definitely appealed to my own preoccupation with appearance. Sitting down at a nearby table she engaged me with some small talk that gradually turned into some heavy conversation. I don’t know what exactly happened, but the insights she shared about God, my sin, heaven, hell, and all the stuff of salvation through Jesus had a different affect on me than in times past. It all became real.

Perhaps my mother’s relentless prayers, her radically changed life, and a messenger that I could relate to were the keys to a breakthrough for me. I don’t know. All I know for certain is that my little world was rocked that day. My eyes were opened and everything seemed to come into focus. I had always felt that God existed, but now the metaphysical took on a new presence. When I left the house that night I had a heightened awareness of the existence of good and evil. It was somewhat eerie. Death, which had never been a real topic of significant contemplation, consumed my thoughts. I am really going to die one day!

Later, I related all that had transpired to my boyfriend and surprisingly, he wanted some Jesus for himself. The weeks that followed were exciting as I experienced the high of being “born again.” Time alone with my boyfriend shifted from movie dates to Bible study. I began to change and develop sensitivity to matters of conscience. It was amazing how quickly I grew in my understanding of redemption and repentance. I boldly shared Jesus with my friends as my proclamations of total commitment to a God who would die so that I could live were met with little resistance. What I did not realize was that God had an enemy; and that enemy was just biding his time. My eyes were now opened and the battle for my soul had just begun.

Game On! Jesus vs. popularity, keg parties, night clubs, and hotties

Have you ever heard the phrase, “Talk is cheap?” Yeah, you know where I’m going with this. My new beliefs began to lead me on a divergence from the path that I had been on – a path that fed certain appetites. A battle was waged and I found that I could not fight against my desires. I rebelled against everything that my mind knew to be truth. I wanted to be in heaven with Jesus when I died, but death seemed so far away and right now I wanted to live! This meant popularity, parties, kegs, football games, sneaking out, hotties, and…

All F’s on a report card - my parents freaked out! But freaking out always just meant that my mom would ground me and then a couple of days later my step-dad would tell me that I wasn’t grounded anymore. I was never verbally disrespectful; I would just let my parents vent, lecture, impose consequences, and then do what I wanted to do. So, I wasn’t too concerned and displayed a rather flippant attitude about the failing grades. It was no biggie! School was meant to skate through anyway and learn life’s most important lesson in success: It’s all about who you know and who knows you! Unfortunately, my step-dad was unfamiliar with “Success 101” and decided that it was time for me to quit high school. Yikes! Now, I was freaked out!

Lost and out of control. These are the two most accurate descriptions of how I felt when I quit school. High school provided a social scene that made me feel like I was on top of the world! The present circumstance felt like I was on a runaway train that was losing track fast. Overwhelmed by what seemed to be inevitable disaster, I clawed for something to keep the depression, anxiety, hopelessness, and self-pity at bay. I needed to be rescued… fast! But, what could I cling to?

Well, everyone has their coping mechanisms and mine seemed to be boyfriends. Alcohol, drugs, meds, and marijuana were never overly appealing for everyday usage, but the acquisition of another man in my life always seemed to take care of the need.

It turned out that leaving regular high school to earn a diploma through school attendance once per week afforded more time to play! My “new” boyfriend’s parents spoiled him with just about everything, so I was feeling like my life wasn’t the major catastrophe that dropping out of school had led me to believe.

He was spoiled, conversely I was spoiled. So life was a grand “give me” – fest. At least that was how the first few months played out. Then I began to notice that the same flirtatious, playful nature that he’d used to woo me was not me-exclusive. Of course, this preyed heavily upon my insecurities while his denials caused me to doubt my own perceptions. I had played the “I make you jealous, you make me jealous, I chase you, and you chase me” game before, but never in an exclusive relationship. My sense of loyalty and commitment began to shift completely as the realization dawned, we all use and are used in our quest to love and be loved.

Shortly after my eighteenth birthday I broke off the relationship. But the damage had already been done. Though I would not have thought it possible, another wall had been erected that distanced me from my emotional vulnerability. I vowed that no man would ever hurt me again. Embracing single life once more, I was empowered by my new resolve to take control and diminish my emotional sensitivity. My life was solely mine to live… Until, it wasn’t.

Young + irresponsible + sexual activity = pregnant. This is one equation that I can unequivocally attest to being accurate. Unsure what to do, I told my brother, who told my mom, who in a round about “I know your pregnant but am trying very hard to pretend that I don’t” – way, insured me that if I ever got pregnant that she would want me to keep the baby and would support me in whatever way she could. So at age nineteen, I gave birth to a little girl. I had reunited with Mr. I Make You Jealous, You Make Me Jealous after learning of the pregnancy and thought that maybe we could try to make the relationship work. But, as the old saying goes, “relationships that begin badly tend to end badly.” Four months after giving birth, I broke it off yet again.

Too much time in dysfunction simply makes a person more dysfunctional. This was definitely my condition. Game playing relationships typically require each participant to become strategic in shifting the momentum from me pursuing you to you pursuing me. Like the game Battleship, you’re always gauging your opponent to discover the most vulnerable place to strike. You’ve won when your challenger is sunk and totally into you, because then you have control. And game playing is all about control. Depth of emotion is a weakness that fuels your opponent’s arsenal while at the same time making the game fatally addicting. And there is nothing like bringing a baby into the world to induce a depth of emotion. This complicated the relationship in ways that made engaging in the game seem interminable and almost impossible to break free from – almost.

My freedom came in the form of a wallet-sized card bearing the picture and stats of a female whose birthday was several years before mine. Instead of nineteen, I was suddenly twenty-four! It was my ticket to a whole new world; an enticing, deliciously captivating world! I gave myself over to it, being lured by its promise of gratification and ultimate pleasure. I had heard about the “Club Scene” but in its depths I felt the goddess among her many worshipers as men clamored for my attention. This world became the center of my existence as it fed my insatiable hunger to be loved, valued, fought for, and wanted. In this realm, one man was simply not enough and emotional attachment was for the weak and vulnerable. No matter the cost, my pleasure would be my priority.

Meanwhile, my mother stayed true to her word. She and my sisters helped take care of my daughter, Brittani, while I was busy “living life.” Her group of church friends and Bible study mates would regularly pray for me and invite me to church events and such. On occasion I would attend, have a good cry, and then go back to “living.” I knew that I was headed no where but I seemingly couldn’t help myself. I had cravings that demanded satisfaction and I was simply too weak to deny them.

Though not yet twenty-one, my life was definitely a hot mess. I had begun to cross personal boundaries that I’d sworn I’d never breach. Note to self: boundaries are never absolute when there is alcohol or drugs involved. I was playing a dangerous game. The stakes were getting higher as my daughter was becoming more aware of the world around her. I was engaged in what seemed to be an endless dance with partners that would not let me go. Chaos was reigning, though I was deceived into thinking that I was in control. Pleasing myself had led me to become a person that I despised. Yet, I could not bring an end to it.

Jesus beckons: Let me cut in

The night was to be the most fantastic of my life! I was finally twenty-one and could officially use my personal ID to get into a club. My girlfriends had set up a night to remember and brought in the most phenomenal bods that a female could feast her eyes on. Though the atmosphere had a high energy buzz, I remember feeling a sort of disconnect between what I was doing and what I was feeling. I just wasn’t in the moment. The future was looming before me and the best that life had to offer appeared to be an endless stream of eye-candy serving up little more than empty calories. I was getting older and growing weary of the party, party, party, sex, sex, sex scene. My life seemed so easy, yet it was so hard. Money, parties, and guys were no longer a satisfying compass. They were pleasure and pain rolled up in disposable packages. I felt lost. I felt used. I wanted something more.

Though I gave in to the festivities of the night, in the wee hours of the morning I found myself sitting on the front steps to the bachelorette pad I shared with a few gals. I looked at the sky as my thoughts moved to my daughter. Oh God, what will she become because of me? My heart ached as the weight of that question seemed to suffocate. Every emotion that I’d bottled up to protect myself from the pain of vulnerability came to the surface. I began to cry. The ability to shed tears was a welcomed reprieve from the prison of callousness constructed to repress the hurt from my childhood to the present. Knowing that my mother and others had been praying for me, I dared once again to entertain the tug on my heart to let Jesus cut in; to give him what I knew he was asking of me. But I was scared. I didn’t know if I could give up everything that defined who I was.

 My life is worth nothing, God. Why would you want it?

I began to cry again as I thought about my friends, the boyfriends, the night life, and the culmination of all that I had become. Tears flowed as I thought about the façade. Attempts to show no flaw, weakness or penetrability left me exhausted and hollow. No matter my beauty, there would always be someone more beautiful. No matter my desirability, there would always be someone more desirable. I was tired of trying to measure up to some invisible standard that would never be satisfied. I was tired of begging to be loved, wanted, and cherished. I was tired of not feeling worthy of the time, attention and affection of those who said that they loved me. I was tired of all of it.

While crying on one’s birthday may appear to be the wrong way to end an evening, the emotional release was probably the best present that I received. I had become so desensitized that I surprised myself by how long and hard the emotion was able to pour out of me. Pulling together my resolve and executing a level of control that made me feel somewhat like myself, I said, Okay God. If you really are all powerful, I need some of that power now. I don’t have the strength to change on my own. Tonight I will make you a deal. I will give you 100% if you promise not to fail me. Every man in my life has failed me. I need to know that you won’t!

It was quite the arrogant prayer from a girl whose life was of such little consequence. But, Jesus and I both knew what giving 100% meant and how difficult it would be for me to surrender that to him. His response was more than I deserved. An incredible sense of presence followed and I felt enveloped by a warm embrace – like a heavenly hug. It was as if something was finally finished and I was truly set free.

Twenty-one years later (yes, I am that old and may be even older by the time this is read), I can tell you that Jesus has never failed me. It is said that hindsight is always 20/20; sort of like we can assess past events through the focus of the present. As I look back now using the old “hindsight” cliché, I honestly shudder as I think about how close I came to missing out on the incredible life that I have now.  Many of us live life as a series of missed opportunities. We get wrapped up in pursuits that are frivolous and then miss out on the most important pursuits of our lives.

One life-changing choice altered not only my destiny, but the destinies of the many that have been impacted by what that choice unleashed. The path of “my life – my way” would have been a tremendous loss as I’ve weighed it against what I received in return for “my life – His way.” Jesus taught me what it is to be known by love – to be intimately and transparently connected. No façade. No pretense. No subject that can’t be breached. He sees what is within, understands how it got there, and then wraps his arms around you and says, “It’s a new day.” I lost my life to him in exchange for true life in Him; a life that flows from him to me and then from me to others. As a result, a girl whose life would have been deemed of little consequence has become very consequential indeed!

For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it. What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul?

 Matthew 16:25-26