Intermission

As much fun as this trip down memory lane has been, I have decided to hold off on the next post for this week. Writing it all down has been cathartic, but it has also got me pretty twisted. I needed a bit of a break.

So if you're here for that, you'll have to give me another week--next up is the birth of my sweet Gabriel; tune in for that on the 24th.

Even knowing how the story turns out, or more accurately how it has turned out thus far, I have anxiety about the whole deal. Remembered stress maybe.

A couple of years ago in our Bible class at Monterey, one of my favorite teachers of all time (Eric Robinson) asked for us to think about and share our salvation story. How we personally came into our faith, what led us there and kept us there, what doubts or struggles we had along the way. What did we believe and how did we arrive at that place.

I can be a bit of a know-it-all in classes, perpetually the one raising my hand because I know the answers. Or think I do. The trick is that I only respond to factual memorization questions; when it comes to personal reflection or interpretation, I am much more reserved. Subjective answers reveal too much about you as a person, I think. Maybe I am just afraid of being wrong. I certainly hate people looking at me, so drawing attention to myself is something I rarely seek out. Either way, over the years I have sunk further and further into my own quiet observations during biblical discussion, absorbing what everyone else is saying and mentally adding my own ideas.

Besides, writing has come far easier to me than speaking, and I am much more comfortable expressing myself here.

The story that I have been telling about the life and times of the Wearden family partially informs the particular brand of faith that I have. It is the origin of my hope, the birthplace of my unwavering confidence. Today, it is my refuge when I need a break from the darker chapters of our tale, and I figure a fine conversational buffer post.

My first church service (if my baby book is to be believed) was when I was ten days old.

I was born on a Friday, Mom had a tubal ligation that kept her in the hospital for three days. We got out Monday; the following Sunday, likely wearing the frilliest of ruffly dresses, I was at worship service.

Growing up, it was my favorite place in the world. My grandparents and uncle and aunt went there; there was an elderly lady that gave me spearmint gum. The singing was beautiful, the classes were fun, sometimes there was food; it was just a happy building for me. I remember lying to my mother once about being sick: I told her I was feeling fine so that I wouldn't miss Wednesday night service. If the doors were open, I wanted to be there.

One of my favorite songs growing up was "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" because I had trouble making friends, and the idea that Jesus and God were always there, wanting to play with me, was very comforting.

My relationship with God at that point was an ongoing conversation. All day long, I told Him everything--what I saw, did, ate, thought, felt. I was known as an exceedingly quiet child; I did not talk much for a long time. Nearly all of my thoughts were directed in a never-ending prayer. At the end of the day, I would end with Amen, sort of "hanging up" on a very long distance call, but that was really the only real similarity to prayer.

I attributed everything good to Him--cool breezes right when I needed them, the sun peeking out of the clouds, extra tater tots at lunch and reading a good book and a friend being nice to me. Everything was interpreted as God's little signs of love.

With the bad things, He was a place to hide, someone to hold me until I didn't hurt any more.

It feels silly now, but when big tragedies occurred like the Columbine shooting or 9-11, I hurt FOR God; I felt like His heart broke to see those things, and I talked to Him about how sorry I was that it had happened.

God I never had any hesitation believing in. I felt all of creation and all of me, everything that ever is or was, spoke out to God's existence. In all things, I sensed Him. Probably because I was looking for it; a lot of people will argue that it is an inherited belief, passed down from my parents before me. That's okay, really. I don't feel the particular need to defend why I believe as I do. It is just something that is and always has been a part of me.

Jesus was another story though.

Wasn't so sure how to read on that whole story. I felt that required a bit more faith than God, honestly. More prayer, more study. I don't know why I approached the Father instinctively and the Son logically, but that is how I needed to process it.

Controversially, I didn't get baptized until I was older, though I was raised in the church. There was a lot of confusion and distress at my choice; many tried to persuade me, bribe me, reason it out with me. When I dig in my heels, they have since learned, there is nothing that is going to sway me--I remained undunked until the ripe old age of 18. I don't really want to touch on my reasons for my hesitation here. It wasn't a lack of conviction though.

When I was young--11 or 12--Danny, my dad, got sick. He spent the next couple of years in and out of hospitals, far more often in than out. We were told to prepare ourselves, and several nights we went up there to say goodbye because the doctors were sure he would not last the night.

It would have made sense for me to be mad at God then, I suppose. Not to say I have never been angry with God. More frustrated than really furious, I think. There have been times when I stomp my feet and grouch and argue and sulk, but He has always been more of a venting place for frustration that is not really directed at Him than an actual source of my ire. Sort of like my husband. Michael is usually not the reason that I am angry, but that doesn't exempt him from having to watch my temper tantrum.

I wasn't mad at God for Dad being sick, though. Just a crappy situation, and I needed my Friend to help me get through it.

One night, later in the progression of the sickness, I remember we had been called up there. It was a Wednesday night; we stopped to get dinner on the way after worship, my grandparents buying us something from a sandwich shop. Several of my friends were up there, all from the church. Dad was in ICU, as he had been for months at this point. I think only family was getting to go back and see him, and even then only two at a time. The toxins had built up in his body from his defunct liver so he couldn't even see me, but he stroked my hair and told me he loved me.

Sitting on the cold linoleum of the hospital floor, waiting to hear that he had passed on, I loved God more. Because He had performed a miracle...,just not the one I had been asking for.

He made it okay.

I had been praying nonstop for years at this point--so many people had been all over the country, praying that God lay His healing hands on Danny and, if it was His will that He make Danny whole again. Of course, we didn't mean that, not really. We weren't really interested in His will; we wanted it to go our way, the way we thought it would. Faith of a mustard seed, no room for doubt that God not only could but WOULD heal my father.

Miracles come in all shapes and sizes. The good ones--like Dad getting a transplant just a couple months later, him still being alive to this day, medicine advancements even progressing to the point that they have since cured him of the disease they knew would kill him in 1999--are the ones we are always hoping and praying for. They're also the ones that can be explained away by science and medicine and very logical justifications that have little or nothing to do with the one I believe made them happen. And I am still so glad to see them, still know from where they came, and praise God for them.

The little ones, though....the peace that came to tell me that it would be okay if my earthly father passed away...those are the ones that are where He shines for me.

I don't expect bad things to stop happening. I do not believe in karma, just that we notice what we are looking for. Good and bad and life and death and sickness and disease and heartache are going to happen to all of us in turn. Not everything happens for a reason; I wish it did. God can work any situation for the better though.

One of my other favorite teachers (Wes Crawford) said that when Adam and Eve sinned, they brought sin into the world, it broke the original perfect bonds between God, man, and creation, and maybe the tragedies we experience are the pains of us crying out to for the return to how it was supposed to be. The whole Bible, a perfect story told through imperfect people, show glimpses of the constant progression God is coaxing us through back to that relationship, the original plan.

With all my heart, I believe that God loves us all equally. Humans are so caught up in right and wrong, and I think we should be at least on a personal level supposed to struggle with morality. We categorize everyone though into good or bad, subconsciously dividing who is and is not worthy of God's gifts and love. In my own personal theology, it is my job to love every person alive with the same love He has shown me, unhesitating, uninhibited, and unceasingly. I think He wants me to be happy when good things happen to anyone, and to mourn when bad things happen, not stopping to consider first of whether or not they "deserved" it.

God works through people. Not exclusively, but I have to leave myself open--generosity of spirit. I tell Emerald that our family works so well because Mommy worries about Daddy and Daddy worries about Mommy, so everybody's needs are met; if we all worry about one another, we are all getting what we need. If we all worry about ourselves, everyone leaves this place a little poorer. When I feel moved to help someone, I know that I can give whatever I have because God is looking out for me. My needs are going to be met because He loves me and He is watching over me.

My whole life's story has been a testament to that. Not that "one door closes" bull, but the calm assurance that if I keep holding on, God will lead me out, on to greener pastures, better things.

Pere Callahan of the universe of Stephen King said that hearing God's voice is like concentrating on a whisper in the middle of a hurricane. Something to that extent at any rate. Whether is the echoes of the stories and lessons that have been so firmly instilled in me since that first Sunday, or actually the Holy Spirit whispering comfort to my heart, the messages I have received through the years have not changed:

Trust. 

I have never asked you to walk alone. 

--Andie