I have always been a praying person. As in, “please God don’t let me get caught.” “Please God let me pass this test.” “Please God help me win a million dollars.”
I know, I’m practically a saint. Or not.
My relationship with God has been a lot like my relationship with whiskey. I know that it’s good, but not necessarily good for me personally. And I prefer it mostly after I’ve been crying a hot mess of emotions. And then it’s usually in huge excessive quantities.
I guess on the bright side, neither whiskey or Jesus have left me abandoned.
There was some bad things that happened to me when I was growing up. A lot of things that were done in the name of Jesus that continued to affect me in my adult life. A man took advantage of his position in my life and forever left me changed believing the lies he spit into my ear. And that is when this first started, the first sign of depression and the ugly bleakness came into my life and suffocated all that was good and holy.
I didn’t get mad, or sad, or feel anything. I guess I thought I deserved it and God had made that happen for a reason. So I stuffed it away with memories of bad haircuts and embarrassing stories. I vowed to make sure I did better.
Eventually, I questioned why this stuff had happened to me and why God allowed it if He was good. Was God really good? Was God really real? I sat with those questions for years. In that time I met my husband, had babies, and built the kind of solid friendships with smart people who are the type of friend you would call if you needed to bury a body (hypothetically, of course). And that is where I really started to see God, in His people. My beautiful family, my amazing friends, and the people that came into my life were these magnificent reminders of His love and goodness.
I look now at my children, these precious pieces of my heart that walk around outside of my body, and I wonder how I could have ever doubted that God exists. I found a therapist who is the incarnate of everything I ever needed to learn, who had walked a similar path in life, that helped me see how my diagnosis was not a sign of failure but is a gift. Albeit, more of a tacky white elephant gift than a longed for precious surprise.
God is here, there, and everywhere. And He is smart. And supports my Oreo theory. Probably.