“I had to walk away from my family in order to save myself,” she says, smiling sadly. “Unfortunately, I left God behind when I set out on my own journey. Their religion was never truly mine anyway. It belonged to my parents, and I just inherited it at birth. If I had been born in a different family, I might have inherited Buddha or Mohammed, or perhaps, the nature goddess of some indigenous group. As it was, however, I inherited a generally angry God who was always waiting to catch me doing something wrong. I imagined him as an old man with a Moses-like beard and a perpetual scowl on his face. He could read minds and hearts, and there was no hiding from him. God was like a deranged grandfather who had all the answers to life’s questions but refused to clue me in out of spite. And there was no doubt in my mind that he was out to get me. He hated my doubts, my purple hair, and my anger.”
She takes a break, breathing deeply. A single tear is rolling down her face. I remain silent, quite moved by her despair and pain. We are waiting for her brother, who is trapped in Baton Rouge rush-hour traffic. Once he arrives, we will plan their mother’s funeral.
“How old were you when you left?” I finally ask to break the oppressive silence.
“I stayed until dad died. I left three days after his funeral. I was 18 and we lived in Baton Rouge. I remember to this day how I left. I just walked out of the house, as though I was going to the market, and I never came back. I left my room just like it was, and even made my bed. Just insurance, you know?” she smiles, but I honestly don’t understand the comment. She sees my questioning eyes and adds, “If God was after me, might as well give him one less reason to strike me dead!”
“So, you made your bed out of fear of God?”
“I did everything out of fear of God that day. I folded my clothes and put them back in my dresser, cleaned the bathroom, swept, mopped the floors, and pushed the chair against the desk. I then walked to the bus station and took a Greyhound bus to Memphis. All I had was the clothes on my back and 253 dollars in babysitting money. I have not been back to Louisiana since that day.”
“How about God?” I asked.
“Left him behind as well. In fact, every time the bus arrived at a new town, I would think to myself, ‘That’s another town between us!’”
“How about now?” I pressed.
“What do you want me to say, Padre? I have no relationship with God. I do not even think he exists. He has been inconsequential in my life so far. I just want to say goodbye to mom, and go back to my messy, complex, and happy life,” she says with new tears streaming down her face.
“I’m glad you have found happiness,” I add. “It sounds like you had a tough childhood.”
“I make my own happiness. I don’t need anyone to make me happy. I can fend for myself quite well,” she says, but I am not quite convinced she is being completely candid.
“Good for you. It does make me sad that you’ve never met God. And please know that there is no judgment implied in my statement. I think you had the wrong understanding of God, and you were right in walking away from that guy. I wouldn’t want a relationship with someone that angry either,” I say tentatively.
She cries silently, and I wait for almost a whole minute before speaking. Sixty seconds can feel like an eternity sometimes.
“You know, God wasn’t just in those towns you passed on your way to Memphis. He was also sitting next to you in that bus. You may feel as though you left him behind, but he never left you. And this is good news because the God of Jesus of Nazareth is love. He was never appalled by your purple hair and he was never repelled by your anger. You felt you had to leave him to find yourself, but the truth is that you left a dysfunctional life to save yourself, and God came along for the ride. He’s always been there.”
She continues to cry softly. Then she whispers, “I’m not a good person.”
“That’s okay. He has plenty of good people. What he needs now is some interesting ones!” I say, injecting some humor into this sad conversation.
“I don’t even think he exists,” she insists.
“Do you believe oxygen exists?” I ask, smiling.
“Of course, oxygen exists! without it we would die,” she responds.
“God is like that for me. Believing in his existence doesn’t change the fact that he is the very air I breathe. He is with me always, and when I think of him, I find compassion, not anger. I find grace, not judgement. I find a loving parent and friend, proud of the imperfect offerings of his beloved child. I don’t find an impossible-to-please grumpy old man making lists of everything I do wrong. In him I find compassion, love, acceptance, and forgiveness.”
I realize I’m preaching. I ask, “Have you ever experienced this God I’m talking about?”
“I used to go to Hardtner every summer for camp. For one week out of the year, I would experience a fun God. But the vindictive old grandfather was always waiting for me at home. That’s the guy I ran away from,” she responds, and I realize she has a far off look in her eyes, as though she is back at home at the age of 12.
“Perhaps it is time to rediscover Hardtner’s God?” I say.
“Too late! I’m no longer a child,” she says, angrily drying her tears with the sleeve of her sweater.
“You will always be his child. I think it is time you reclaim your childhood faith. What do you have to lose?”
She looks at me and for a brief second, I detect hope peeking out through the dark clouds of sadness. I smile at her and say, “I am a phone call away if you want to talk.”
Her brother walks in and the funeral preparation begins. Right before the siblings leave, she asks for my business card, and to my great surprise, she calls me back about three weeks later.
We talked for about twenty minutes on the fifth anniversary of her mother’s death, about five weeks ago. She tells me that she has met “a Christian man.” She warns me not to think she has become a Jesus freak. She does say she is going to church with her fiancé and she finds the whole thing, “strangely comforting.” I believe this is a great way to define Christianity, “Strangely comforting!”
Before I hang up, I agree to do her wedding in 2021 and she agrees to stay in touch. I then remember the angry young woman I met five years ago, and I give thanks to God for the strange comfort he has brought into her life.
Fr. Roman+
