The Domino Effect

I used to not be a very good person. Not a horrible person, but not a very good one. If you had asked me in that chapter of my life though whether I was a good person, I would have adamantly insisted that I was. Mainly because my definition of good was completely different than what it is today. To me, being a good person simply meant not blatantly hurting anyone, following the rules, and not breaking any laws. Sure, there were the occasional times that I did something nice for someone else, but they were way too few and far between. Usually, the only person I was doing nice things for was myself. Ironically, the most good I did during that chapter was not for humans at all, but for animals, volunteering at a pet shelter with lots of cat and dog orphans.

But my life back then was in the pursuit of pleasure. Hedonism at its finest. And hedonism always seems to lend itself to narcissism, doesn't it? I was that, too. I took it upon myself to set up all the social plans for my group of friends who were also self-absorbed pleasure seekers by nature. I surrounded myself with these people for 14 years, never seeing many of them for the emotional vampires that they were. They took and took, they reached out when it served their means, they gossiped about each other, and I eagerly followed suit, proving to be just as two-faced as they were. I was not a good person.

It took a nasty divorce to realize that many of those people were not and never had been my friends. Since my ex-husband and I were at the center of this colossal social circle, our friends saw our divorce as the equivalent of breaking up the band. Many of them were quick to toss me out like so much trash and join him in his hatred of me.  And as gutted as I was to learn how few friends I actually had, I was also deeply humbled and grateful for those others who refused to pick sides and instead affirmed that they would always love me. That was my darkest chapter and they stuck with me through it, without judgment, without condemnation, and with unconditional love. I am friends with them still and I will always be thankful for their kindness then. My family held me up as well, and ironically, they were strangely relieved to learn of my divorce. They saw through my marital charade long before I did, recognizing that I was a bird in a gilded cage, not a free, happy, or respected woman.

But through all of that drama, through the highs and lows of gaining independence, and the small victory of moving into my tiny one bedroom apartment which was far from the most glamorous place I had ever lived but definitely the most exciting, because it was mine and mine alone, there was one thing missing. The most important thing. My relationship with God.

Sure, I believed in God to some vague extent and was one of those people who only bothered to pray to him when the sky was falling, when I needed something from him. Looking back, my one-sided relationship with him was not so different from the one I had experienced with my now ex-friends. But my relationship with him was always based on my terms and my timing, and I deluded myself with the idea that I was still in control of every part of my life.

Having grown up in a house whose only form of Christian practice was the hour we spent at church every Sunday (and with only one parent, as the other one was an atheist), I had never really practiced Christianity. We had never prayed outside of church or discussed it unless it was in jest. I don't recall us doing volunteer work or helping others. We were our own little self-sustaining island of four, and that was fine with us. When we did do good for others, I don't remember us focusing on whose message we were really living out, or who the real root of all the goodness was. So I fell farther away from any slight influence from Christianity, and gravitated towards the comforts of science, launching into an atheist's mentality and deciding as a teenager that we all switch off like lights at the end, and that's just fine. And then one of the greatest human beings I had ever known, my grandfather, had died when I was 16, and I was forced to look upon his lifeless body - against my will - during the open casket viewing, and I caught but the slightest glimpse of his head and face before fainting in response. It was all too much and too terrible. I remember my godfather's fury at my family for forcing me to look at such a thing, and I now understand why he felt that way. That experience drove me farther into atheism, farther into that ice cold sense of hopelessness.

There had been undeniable correspondences from God that should have acted as the catalysts for launching me straight into Christianity, real Christianity. Like that same grandfather visiting me in a dream after six straight months of nightmares, and telling me point blank that there was a heaven and he was in it, and a God who ran it. Like my heartbeat and breathing stopping for two minutes after an allergic reaction when I was 18, and me having an out of body experience that showed me the slightest glimpse of the afterlife, a peaceful and euphoric place. (But that's another post for another time, once I work up the courage to write about it.) Yes, these were less than subtle communications from God that should have launched me straight into Christianity, if I had bothered to actually listen. But instead, they only nudged me from being an atheist into being at least an agnostic. A step in the right direction for sure, but still a thousand steps away from where I needed to be.

No, the real change happened when I met my now husband (who I have so affectionately referred to in prior blog posts as "Tex") and we started to go to random church services. We church-surfed for a few years and the need to find the right church became more urgent once I was pregnant and we realized we wanted to raise our baby Christian, even though I still didn't know exactly what that meant yet.  And then one Sunday morning, we stumbled upon a new church where the music was terrific, the sermon was mind-bending, and the congregation greeted us, two total strangers, as if we were long lost friends who they had been waiting for years to see. We were enchanted. And so we found ourselves returning Sunday after Sunday. And then I started to experience what I think of now as the domino effect. The more sermons we attended, the more sermons we wanted to hear. I had developed a thirst for the epiphanies that came from these sermons, and I couldn't wait to see which of my mental horizons would be broadened each week. And with the repeated visits to this church came the growing friendships we developed with this congregation who we now refer to as our "church family". When our son was born, our pastor made a point to meet him right away, and to check on us in the hospital. And after we got out of the hospital, our church family was leaving meals on our doorstep as we adjusted to being new parents. I started reading more and more about Jesus and what he was really all about, until I had a breakthrough amidst Lee Strobel's "The Case For Christ", during which my mind was changed, and I accepted that Jesus is divine. So I had multiple influences, between our pastor, our church family, what I was reading, and the steady and quiet guidance of my husband. Our music director invited me to play cello for the church, and to sing with the choir. Our nursery director worked tirelessly with us to ensure that our little boy was in the best possible care during Sunday school. Our elders recruited Tex to help with ushering, giving readings, and delivering meals to poverty stricken children. We took workshops, we went on mini-retreats, we celebrated holidays; we did so much with our church family all in the name of Christ, and the power of good just got stronger and stronger. 

And the domino effect continued, as I realized that after I was changed by my influencers, I unknowingly became one, myself. I sent my dad the Strobel book and after a lifetime of atheism, he started to believe, and to open his mind to it. Now he is a follower of Christ. Suddenly, my brother was attending church regularly and when I asked him what inspired him, he said it was seeing the change in me. My mom and stepdad started attending church regularly, too. I don't mean to sound like I'm crediting myself for any of this. It was all God's doing, of course, and I was merely His instrument. But what an honor to get that opportunity. And as our associate pastor said in today's sermon, keeping an eye out for those opportunities is what it's all about. Now we have several new friends who have been through tremendous tragedies of their own, people who we want to help through this painful time, who have reached out after we kept the lines of communication open, and asked if they could come to church with us sometime. I have a friend who used to take great offense to the expression "I'll pray for you", but in time, started asking for prayers when times got tough. So there are all of these little - but not so little - amazing moments where we have chances to spread the word, to help our fellow mankind, to do true good, and to remember who is at the center of it. I love watching God's domino effect as he uses us to reach others. Powerful, powerful stuff.

Matthew 9:35-10:1 (NIV)

35| Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness. 36| When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. 37| Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few.        38| Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.”

The hills are alive, with the sound of paaaaniiiiiiic

So I'm a compulsive planner, to say the least.  Especially during the summer.  And especially here in Colorado.  Because in Colorado, there's really no such thing as spring.  It goes from winter into some sunnier months that one would normally refer to as spring, but with the "holy shit, what is this?" snowfalls as late as Mother's Day, and often later.  And then - BLAM! - summer is here and QUICK, YOU HAVE TO PACK ALL OF YOUR FUN HOT WEATHER ACTIVITIES INTO THESE THREE SHORT MONTHS BECAUSE THE SNOW WILL BE HERE BEFORE YOU KNOW IT AND THE POOLS ARE ONLY OPEN DURING THIS TINY SLIVER OF TIME AND AAAAAGGGGGH, EVERYONE FREAK OUT!  So our summers tend to be insanely busy and insanely pre-planned.  One of the things we love more than anything is to go camping, and we had been in the habit of going to the same spot every year, right in the heart of Rocky Mountain National Park.  And for me, it's never just been "let's go camping here".  No, no.  It's "let's find the best camping spot here, and stake our claim".  So year one was doing online recon and trying to find the best looking site from the pictures.  Then we arrived and saw in person where some better sites were, and years two and three were spent at those better sites.  Then year three was bending the ear of the park ranger and learning about the secretly best spot in the whole park.  And so we planned for that spot this year, on year four.  And true to form, I found out the exact earliest date that we could make reservations, and I made our reservations on it, exactly six months in advance.  Planning.  So for six months, we've been doing all of these other great things, and in my heart, I was positively giddy over our upcoming camping trip.  Reservations, check.  Packing, check.  Secured house sitter, check.  Working like a crazy person to get to a good stopping point so I could actually enjoy my vacation, check.  Everything was all set.  And then the night before our trip as we were driving to Subway, Tex turns to me and says, "Did you see the weather forecast?  It's supposed to storm there all weekend."  I almost crashed the car.  Then I started pummeling him with questions on just how accurate this information was, and can he name his sources?  Then I went into denial and thought, "We're still going.  Canceling is not an option.  We'll go and we'll have fun, no matter what the weather's doing!"

"This game is fun.  Fun, dammit."
     -- Crash Davis, Bull Durham

And my mind was racing with our options, going into that panicky, neurotic, anxiety-ridden overdrive mode, and as I was babbling incoherently to Tex and checking off pros and cons list in my head, I looked up and saw a splendidly perfect rainbow adorning the Subway parking lot.  I could see the whole thing from start to finish.  It was breathtaking.  And something in the back of my lizard brain felt like maybe that was God saying, "Everything will be fine.  Just chill."  Except in my brain, it played more like the scene in The Big Lebowski, except I'm The Dude and God is Walter.

"Nothing is f***ed here.  You're being very un-Dude."
     -- Walter Sobchak, The Big Lebowski

So Tex and I went into action mode and formulated a plan.  I would spend the night researching the weather all over the entire state of Colorado, then pack the car, and we would head out first thing in the morning in hopes to find a walk-up spot somewhere not stormy.  After an exhaustive search, I found exactly one spot within a 4 hour drive that predicted virtually no storms: Steamboat Springs.  So we headed there and called the National Parks people on the way to find out about availabilities.  They kept telling us to call back in an hour, and inevitably, when it was an hour later, we'd be on a patch of road with absolutely no cellphone service.  Eventually, we reached them and got some pointers.  Went to destination #1 with hope in our hearts, and they turned us away.  They only accepted campers intending to stay one night only.  Obviously not us, considering our car looked like a clown car, it was so packed.  My heart jumped into my throat as my stomach cramped into one big ball of nerves, and I fought the waves of anxiety as we drove to destination #2.  Being the ever faithful pessimist, I prepared myself for the reality that there would be no available sites, and we'd have to turn our butts around after 3 hours in the car and drive 3 hours back to our house, in defeat.  But apparently The Big Man Upstairs had different plans for us, since not only did destination #2 have available sites, but it was breathtakingly hit-yourself-in-the-head-wondering-if-this-is-real beautiful.  We literally got out of the car and surveyed our site, a perfect little camping spot nestled in a sea of wildflowers and backing up to an expansive and lush green meadow.  We weren't in Colorado.  We were clearly in Switzerland and this was clearly the set of The Sound of Music, since Wee Man started running through the meadow chasing butterflies in the sunshine.  I would not have been surprised if he'd burst into song.  Lord knows I was ready to.

If I were to try to share the details of that four day camping trip, this post would be 10 pages long, so I'll just leave it at this: it was amazing.  And the wildflowers.  Ohhhhhh, the wildflowers!  They were everywhere.  They were on our hike to the tops of the peaks, they were on our hike around the lake, they were everywhere.  That trip included some of the most dazzling beauty I've ever witnessed, and it simply took my breath away.  The weather held out beautifully, with only a small bit of rain on our last day, and before we knew it, it was time to drive home.  In classic Colorado fashion (worst drivers ever), all three routes home were covered in accidents.  So we ended up adventuring and taking a crazy route home that involved a very steep pass and at least 30 miles of back mountain roads with hairpin turns.  But it gave us a bunch more ideas on camping spots, and when we finally neared our house, I looked to the right and what did I see?  A rainbow.  Okay, God.  I get it.

"It's not a subtle point you're making."
     -- Simon Bishop, As Good As It Gets

In case I had any doubts that he'd told me four days before, "Hey, spaz.  Chill out.  Everything will be fine", he bookended our trip with a finale rainbow to drive the point home.  If I had a dime for every time God said "Told you so, told you so", I'd be filthy stinking rich.

 

Forgiveness & Faith

I am so emotionally drained right now that this will probably not be some of my best writing. But I have to write this, and it has to be today. Because today I went to a memorial service that both shattered my heart and filled it. T was not someone I had the privilege to know very long, but I'm thankful that I knew him at all. Every morning when I would drop our boy off at preschool (usually late), T would be strolling out of the school smiling at us, always ready with a high five for my little guy, and always with a grin my way that said, "Yep, you're late again. But that's okay. No judgement here." He was by far the friendliest parent I met at the school, and he had such an easy and peaceful way about him.

When the school did a field trip to the movies last year, I brought my boy in and saw that all of the other kids were already paired up with one another. I sighed, a little sad, and committed to sitting with my guy alone, worried that he would feel shunned by his peers since he's just sitting with his boring old mom. And then I heard a voice behind me say, "This guy has been begging to sit next to your boy", and I turned to see T with his adorable son (who we will call "X").  And X and my little man sat next to each other for the movie belly laughing and cramming popcorn into their mouths, with T and I like bookends on either side of our excited, happy little men. We had such a good time. I was so touched by the friendship developing between X and my boy.

And then today I had to attend a memorial for X's dad, wondering the whole time what he must be thinking, how his little 4 year old brain must be processing all of this. I didn't know T well but the sheer sadness of the situation made me feel like I would snap in half. I felt foolish for how much I cried, considering how little I knew T. But still, I couldn't stop crying....for X losing a parent at such a tender age, for the violence in how T was prematurely snatched from this world (driveby shooting), for the sorrow I felt for T's wife in now facing the task of raising her two babies without her husband by her side.

So I sat there wallowing in my despair when one of T's female family members got up and gave a short speech. She carried herself with a strength and sureness the likes of which I have never seen in my 40+ years. And she talked about T and she talked about loss, and then she asked us....to forgive his shooter. I about fell out of my pew. What had she just said? Did this woman grieving her loved one just challenge me to forgive his killer? And then she drove the point home: "If you want to see T again, then you need to be like him. You need to be kind like he was, selfless like he was, and Christian. And that means to forgive. You need to forgive." I was in awe. I'd heard the stories of the Amish girls shot in the church in Lancaster, and their parents forgiving the shooter, to my shock and disbelief. I'd heard of the Charleston church shooting that resulted in the victims' relatives offering up forgiveness for the heinous act. But I had never seen forgiveness - not forgiveness like this in person - until today. That woman was a force to be reckoned with. And she was the type of Christian that makes me proud, the type who walks the walk. The type who *gets* what Jesus was preaching and follows it.

I can only dream of ever reaching that level of faith. I admit I am still mired by anger and I would like to beat the killer to a bloody pulp right now, if I had the chance. And this is me, someone who didn't even know T that well. But when I think about what that cowardly shooter has done to that family, I feel the rage inside me boil over. But I can't think like that. I need to heed that woman's advice and let it sink its hooks into me. I need to forgive.

I was doing a virtual spin class last week and the narrator said something towards the end that struck me: "You're going home." I was moved by that because it made me feel empowered to leave my baggage behind and look forward to my husband and son, my home. And to look forward to my eternal home one day, when I'm called there by God. (Hopefully, he'll let me stay with him.) So T, you are home. I know you are good because you're with our maker, and you've found true peace. And I will do my best to help your family through this time.

"All You Need Is Love..."

Well, today is Maundy Thursday, although don't ask me what a Maundy is because I have no idea.  And when I learn what it is, I'll forget until I learn it again next year.  We arrived to tonight's church service slightly frazzled from being 10 minutes late - babysitter had lost track of time - but settled in right away with that wonderful, familiar comfort of being surrounded by our church family as we all partook in prayer and earnest listening.  My husband's demeanor changed almost instantly upon sinking into his chair, as he reached for my hand and held it tight in a wordless expression of appreciation for his incredibly lucky wife.  As the service continued, he rested his head on my shoulder, a gesture significant for its irony, considering that our roles 99% of the time are me as the drama queen flailing with emotion and him as the rock.  But when this man so known for exuding a steady and unshakeable strength laid his head on my shoulder like a child to a parent, it felt like an admittance of vulnerability, and for once, I felt like the rock.  It felt good.  I smiled to myself as he uttered quiet words of love to me that no one else could hear, and adorned my shoulder with several soft kisses.  It reminded me of our little son who had insisted on giving me a big, wet kiss before we left the house tonight, and I couldn't help but smile to myself at how similar their styles of loving were: so simple, so unconditional, so unafraid.  I felt the warmth of knowing that these two men, big and small, loved me with every fiber of their beings, and I was whole.  And not just because of their love, but because of the love of this church, and of each wonderful person in it, and most of all, God.

The associate pastor went on to give a sermon that moved me to tears, and I was shaken to the core at his message of us "standing by Jesus in his moment of need".  I had never thought of Jesus as needing anything, frankly, least of all from a screwup like me.  After all, he is Jesus.  But as the associate pastor went on to explain, I was reminded of my calling.  He spoke of those people who willingly shun God, who turn a blind eye to him, and who mock him or walk away.  And I shuddered to recall that I had once been one of those people.  And he spoke of how it's our duty to stand by Jesus by helping these people so that their views might be opened and they might know him.  And how many Christians find feeding the hungry or finding shelter for the poor to be an easier method of support.  But not me.  I do feel the calling to break into the minds of my once-fellow atheists, and see if I can't crack a door for them.  It's a tricky, tricky goal, since the smartest atheists have very convincing arguments and counter arguments to all things Christianity.  It's hard.  But as Tom Hanks says in A League of Their Own, "the hard is what makes it great".  So yes, I'm excited to continue my journey to ohhhhhhh so subtly encourage atheists to consider things differently, to graduate them away from the idea that "prayer" is a bad word, or that Jesus was a great teacher and nothing more.  I wouldn't even call them baby steps, the steps I make.  More like ladybug steps since they're so infinitesimal.  But they're something.

The women's choir gave two soul-shattering performances, the latter of which had tears streaming down my face in buckets.  We took communion and then, at the pastor's recommendation, stood in a gigantic circle, holding hands.  We prayed together, saying our prayers aloud, and I was overwhelmed by sudden flashbacks of a Godless life.  I was flooded with memories of the sheer selfishness and hum of distraction that I had once allowed my life to become, of the empty person that I was, a shell who attracted other empty people.  Mean people.  Hurtful people.  (Speaking of the associate pastor's question "Have you ever had your love rejected?"  I laughed out loud at that one and wanted to yell out "How much time do you have?")  I remembered a life that was solely about the pursuit of pleasure and nothing more.  And then I snapped back to present day, to this incredible group of people in this building that is truly my home away from home, with a pastor leading it who was the first person to ever meet my baby boy besides my husband, and to my amazing husband, of course, who always manages to act as the steady vessel of God.  God.  This was all made possible because of God.  The fullness in my heart, the love of my son, of my husband, and of all of these affectionate, empathetic, forgiving, non-judgmental people -- all of this fullness and warmth was thanks to God.  My heart burst at the thought, and I spoke a prayer of gratitude aloud, hearing my voice crack as I fought furiously to keep from crying.  I scanned this massive circle of souls and stopped on each face, knowing almost all of them, and knowing I had a friend in each of them.  A music director who rekindled my love for playing cello and encouraged me to play for the church and for God; a married couple preparing for another trip to help children in Africa, with perseverance I could only dream to have; girlfriends who I have laughed with, lamented with, and admired as I watch their continued journey through momhood.  And our leaders.  Our mind-bending pastor and associate pastor and their rock solid wives who are every bit as strong, inspiring, and inviting as they are.  People who have watched our son grow from a newborn.  The list goes on.  But I was moved tonight.  I knew it would be an emotional service.  Maundy Thursday always is.  (And what is a Maundy?  I have to go look it up now!)  But I love that no matter how many years in a row we do this, it's a little different each year, but always inspiring.  To think that this time six years ago, I didn't even know these people.  It's unthinkable, since they surely feel like family to me.

So this is just a very longwinded post of thanks, God.  Thank you for putting this amazing congregation in my path.  Thank you for my husband, and for my son.  Thank you for your sacrifice.  And Happy Easter indeed.

Putting the "ich" in cliche

Yep, I'm a cliche right now. I'm literally sitting on my bathroom floor with my laptop in tow, weeping and typing out my feelings to a screen. Didn't Julia Roberts already cover this in Eat, Pray, Love? I've been wanting to blog the last few Sundays and I let other things get in the way. I've had so many thoughts and I failed to share them here. Well, now I'm realizing that my current reaction is a big flag to STOP...and do a little deep reflection and praying.

My husband posted an innocent request for weight loss tips on his Facebook page. It started off innocently enough with people offering helpful tidbits. Then I jumped on and made a self-deprecating joke and the well-meaning advice began. Everyone had all these great tips to share with me, and I was so touched that everyone was trying so hard to help me. Here, I had inadvertently hijacked my hubs' post with my own selfish request to lose that extra 20lbs that's been plaguing me for the last 2+ years. And suddenly as I'm reading all of these comments, my mental demons start to emerge. Instead of reading them for the help they were trying to be, I started twisting them into a way to come down on myself. Every comment read like, "Well I do (insert diet regimen here) and I lost 400lbs in 10 minutes! What's YOUR problem? Why are YOU failing so much?" Did they write this? Not remotely. But despite the hours of therapy I've sat through, I still have demons that apparently like to come out and show their fugly faces at inopportune times. And I didn't even realize I was demon wrestling until one friend reminded me that if I have 1) God, 2) my adoring husband, and 3) my adoring son, life is a-okay. Cut to me reading her comment, bawling, and then kicking off this blog post. Clearly if I'm reacting this way, there is something deeper going on here.

I have felt off.

I have felt that spiritual laziness kick in these past few months. Meaning to talk to God more, but not doing it. Meaning to read scripture more, but not doing it. All these things I'm wanting to accomplish, yet I hear myself talking and I see myself not doing. Jesus was a man of action. I feel like the farthest thing from action right now. And here I am, complaining on Facebook that I can't lose weight. Talk about first world problems. But it's not just that. It's the uncanny ability I have to beat the shit out of myself for my shortcomings, or to compare myself with others over completely insane things, as if this whole game of life is just one big competition that I am always losing by a hair. My brain knows all of these things but it's getting my emotional/psychological wiring to jump on board which is the hard part.

It's amazing how when we let the little stresses build up and we don't acknowledge them, they turn into one big ball of stress that levels you flat. I think mine morphed into that gigantic rock at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark, and it's been rolling towards me for a while now, chasing me until I can't outrun it and BLAM! It flattens me like a pancake in the form of me bawling in response to being told "you are loved". And as much as I want to armchair psychology the crap out of this thing right now, I will fight the urge and try to keep the lesson I've learned simple.

God spoke through my friend tonight. I felt that pit of unease, obsession, anxiety during that post tonight and then in one quick sentence, she slapped some sense into me with the reminder that HEY! God loves YOU! Imperfect, bad at being on time to anything ever, doesn't practice her cello enough, still way too pessimistic, uninspired by her job at times, overanalytical, obsessive, hypersensitive, talks too much and acts too little YOU! And I don't deserve it. I don't deserve the love I get from God. I don't deserve the friends I have who are instruments of his message. And yet I have them. I am so lucky beyond words. And don't get me started on how lucky I am to have actually found a man that I'm happily married to, and to be blessed with a child. A child! Me! Selfish, neurotic, exhausting me gets to play mom to the greatest kid on the planet! I can't even begin to cover those blessings. They're on a whole different level.

Anyway, through my (over?)reaction to that message, God forced me to stop in my tracks and reevaluate. I need to take our associate pastor's advice to be kind and gentle to those we meet, as everyone carries a heavy load...except the person I need to be more kind and gentle to right now is me.

I did the team building trust fall with God

Do you remember the "trust fall"?  It's that cheesy team building exercise that corporations of yesteryear sometimes tortured their employees with, where everyone holds their arms out as one schmuck lets herself fall backward with the trust that they'll catch her. Well, that was me. Except replace the corporate team with God, and replace the schmuck with...well, me. Okay, I was still the schmuck in this story. I did a trust fall with God yesterday, and to my surprised delight, he didn't let me fall! The fact that I was surprised by this is what makes me a schmuck. If I manage to get through my life without completely screwing it or someone else up, and I end up unimaginably lucky enough to reach the pearly gates, I picture God as this guy standing there with his arms folded and a somewhat sarcastic smirk on his face like, "Seriously? How many signs do I have to give you? Yes, I'm here. I've got you. WE'RE GOOD."

But let me back track. I should go back to the beginning and give an overview of how I got here.

HOW I GOT HERE
I was born and raised in a semi-spiritual family. We went to church every Sunday but I can't say I retained any of it. Only a few times in my young life did the words of any preacher actually penetrate the din of my self-absorption and cause me to listen, let alone be inspired. The result? I became an atheist. I called BS on the whole thing and decided it's easier to see us as light switches that just snap off in the end with no fanfare. Then I dropped dead. I was 17. Okay, I wasn't "dead" per se. But my heartbeat and breathing stopped for two minutes which, according to the medical world, is referred to as anaphylaxis caused by an allergy. But that experience converted me from atheist to at least an agnostic, a step in the right direction. Anyway, that's another story for another time. I went through most of my adult life as an agnostic. I believed in something, let's call it "God" for lack of a better word. I tried a few churches but it never stuck.

And then I met and married an amazing man who inspired me to find a church, one that I would love so much that I'd want to visit it weekly. Granted, he never actually uttered such a suggestion. His demeanor was a suggestion itself. He was a good person, a better person than me by a long shot, so I wanted to see if maybe his spiritual background was the reason why, and we made it our mission to find a church together, one that we would love and call our home away from home. The other motivator was my pregnancy. There's nothing like realizing you're about to bring a human into the world to make you look at yourself and say, 'Holy shit, I need to get my act together.' I didn't want our kid to be raised by a wishy washy, confused, sometimes atheist, sometimes agnostic, sometimes Christian-ish mom. I wanted to know WTF my beliefs were once and for all. Call it my inner control freak. And so I started looking for God. Like, really looking for him.

We perused some area churches and some of them felt more like attending an overdramatized pro wrestling match, while others made me feel like I would burn in the fires of hell the moment I stepped foot in the parking lot. They just weren't grabbing us, and if there's one thing I knew about myself, it's that I would not allow myself to settle. If I was really going to attempt this Christianity stuff, I'd need to find a place that made me feel all in. And then my hubs and I went to a church where the music was....good? Wait, what? There's good music at churches? I thought church was supposed to be boring fall-asleep-while-standing hymns, followed by the muttering of phrases that make no sense to me. But no, this was music that I would actually listen to if I heard it on the radio, and - dare I admit it? - sing along with. Woah. And then the pastor gave his sermon. But it didn't feel like a sermon. It felt like a casual conversation. I felt like I'd known this guy my whole life, and weirder, I felt like he knew me. In fact, his sermon was designed to be specifically about me and no one else. As far as I was concerned, there was no one else sitting in the congregation that day because he was clearly only talking to me. Not only that, but he was specifically addressing the very things I had just the week prior gone into a neurotic, anxiety-ridden frenzy over. He was a mind-reader. A psychic. There was clearly no other explanation. So I found myself and my already gigantic 5 month belly perched on the edge of our seat, clinging to his every word. And next thing you know, I was crying. Damn near blubbering, actually. What? This doesn't happen in church! Church is for making fart jokes as a kid and trying not to get kicked out for inappropriate laughter. Church is for writing shopping lists in your head as you zone out as an adult. But connection? What was this? I was intrigued. My hubs felt the same way and we went back the following week. And for the next 244 weeks including today. But this church blew our minds, between the mind-reading pastor, the catchy music, and the amazingly welcoming congregation. But these were only pieces of the puzzle that would bring me to the land of true believers. Another gigantic piece was my husband, my never faltering rock, my inspiration, my living embodiment of all that is good, patient, kind, tolerant, and loving. Another piece was Lee Strobel and his book, "The Case For Christ", which blew my mind, convinced me with historic and medical proof that Christ is the actual son of God (not just "some cool dude who was a great teacher"), and almost made me pass out in several places with its graphic, heartbreaking, horrifying descriptions of what this man went through for us. The final - and most important - piece was God himself. He gave me signs. Actually, he had always been giving me signs. I had just been too thickheaded and arrogant to see them. But now I could feel the steady flick of his thumb and forefinger on my forehead as he reminded me that Yes. He. Exists. But now back to today's story.

BACK TO TODAY'S STORY
My realization that Christ was divine was a pivotal moment in my life, but that's not to say that I haven't been wrestling and sparring with his various teachings ever since. I've had Godbonk after Godbonk - this is what I like to call those episodes in life where God points himself out to me unequivocally - for years now, and because I'm a stupid human, I insist on not trusting him, and on letting myself get mired in doubt and fear. Such was my ordeal before this weekend's Women's March on Denver.

Now...before you snap the computer shut because you think this just turned political...it didn't!

This post is not about the reasons behind the Women's March. It's about my fear of going and how God responded to it. So please give me a chance before you flip me the bird and assume I'm waxing political.

Are you still here? Thanks. I appreciate it. So anyway, rumblings of this crazy Women's March started flooding the internet, and we all know what a big, big fan I am of the internet. I'm waiting for the day that my husband leads an intervention against me for my dysfunctional relationship with Facebook. Facebookiloveyouihateyouiloveyouihateyou....  But I noticed that some girlfriends were planning to attend this march and I decided to hold my breath and agree to go. So I sent out a private message to them that started the planning process. As they went on about how exciting it would be, I admitted my inner dread and offered a great many excuses as to why I might not make it, until one girlfriend observed, "You really sound like you don't want to go to this." I had to laugh at myself because she was absolutely right. So that got me to thinking, Why am I making plans for something I don't want to do? And I decided to pray on it. And pray and pray and pray and pray on it. I asked God a great many questions about whether I should go, what my motivation would be for going vs not, etc. My main concern was being murdered or maimed. The march was expecting 30,000 people in attendance and the organizers assured us that there would be cops everywhere who were trained to identify perps, and yes, backpacks were allowed. Which of course meant that all I heard was "Backpacks, aka perfect bomb hiding devices, are allowed." So I freaked out some more and prayed some more and talked with my better half about it. And I was reminded in all of this that Jesus was not a complacent man. He was a rebel, a guy who yelled, a guy who turned over tables, cracked whips, chased off punks, and brought the smack down on anyone who would try to stand on the back of another. And so it came to me that if I believed in something, I needed to stand up for it, use my voice, and show my support by being there. It also occurred to me that there was exactly one motive for each choice. The motive for attending was love. The motive for not attending was fear. Was fear of God? No. I knew that much. So my answer was clear.

So I headed out early yesterday morning after bidding goodbye to my husband and kissing my son, the whole time trying to ward off morbid thoughts like 'I hope this isn't the last time you see Mommy.' Yeah, that's a happy thought. I headed out, armed with my wedding band which was a constant reminder of my marriage, my cross necklace which was a constant reminder of my God, and the two love notes that my bighearted four year old had written me and insisted that I carry in my wallet. In retrospect, I see all three of those things as my good luck charms. I drove to the train station in silence, praying and anxious the whole time. I sought reassurance that I was doing the right thing and not willingly sending myself to my own death. Wow, could I be more dramatic? As I parked and walked toward the station, it started ringing lovely chimes from its small belltower. The sound of the bells with the hue of the pink sunrisen sky was beautiful, and I basked in it until the inevitable morbid thoughts of bells tolling, for whom the bells tolls, etc, invaded my mind. It was incredibly difficult but I finally resigned to deciding that if I were to get blown up in a riot, it must be God's will. But I wouldn't have my son be raised by a mom who didn't march because she was too scared, or my husband be shackled with a fear-ridden wife. So I took a leap and did the trust fall with God.

The train was so full that we were shoved against each other like sardines. And when I exited and tried to take the bus with my girlfriends, we couldn't, because bus after bus was full. So we caught an Uber ride from a very nice driver who admitted to having been a former gang banger and was even stabbed once. Can't say it was a boring ride! Anyway, we went about finding our remaining group of friends, and we navigated a crowd of 100,000 (it was originally estimated at only 30,000) with friends who brought babies, four year olds, etc. I had forbade my husband from getting anywhere near the vicinity, asking him to stay safely at home with our boy. I don't think it broke his heart to be asked to stay away from something called a "Women's" March. After all, he's still a manly man from Texas. I could tell so many stories of the kindnesses I experienced yesterday. But I'll just keep it at this; it was the nicest crowd of people I have ever encountered in my life. Everyone helped and accommodated everyone. Everyone looked out for everyone. Everyone said "please" and "thank you". Everyone held each other up. Everyone watched out for the kids to keep them safe, and helped each other find lost friends. They held doors for each other, made room for each other, and showed genuine compassion for one another in their actions. When the crowd got too big to actually march, they settled for standing still and cheering each other on, because it was safer than pushing 100,000 people forward and causing an accidental stampede. But I left the day in awe of the human race, and completely renewed in my belief in it. And when I returned to my car, the bells chimed again. How different they sounded in my current, changed state of mind. And on my drive home, I almost laughed out loud with giddiness over the realization that God has my back. He always had. I just needed to finally trust him.

And true to form, our pastor gave another telepathic sermon this morning which focused on our need to find that one thing to center all other things around. What we decide as that one thing will determine whether all of the other things fall into place. If we make God that one thing, all things fall into place. Kind of like how I made trusting God that one thing, that most important thing, and lo' and behold, all other things fell into place. Over 670 marches took place across the world yesterday, and I have not heard of one of them becoming violent. And regardless of my stance on human rights, marriage equality or pro-choice vs pro-life, I got to go peacefully represent my views yesterday and hopefully show those with differing views that we can all represent our ideas peacefully. Hundreds of thousands of us experienced peace yesterday, because God in in control, not us. He has our backs. It's up to us to trust his plan.

2 Chronicles 30 "And the kingdom of Jehoshaphat was at peace, for his God had given him rest on every side."