God Doesn't Want Me

Despite my upbringing in a Christian home, I found myself in a period of darkness when God seemed distant. His name was only used in vain or in desperate prayers to escape the many troubles I faced. This struggle with faith was a heavy burden I carried, and I know many of you can relate to this feeling of distance and doubt.

My parents were active members of the Methodist Church. In 1977, my adult sister's decision to get baptized there sparked desperate pleas from my parents that I join her, hoping it would somehow change my attitude and behavior. At the time, I agreed to drive from Seattle to my hometown to get baptized, but only because I wanted to get my parents off my back.

The day before baptism, I was invited to an intramural baseball game at a Job Corps Center where I used to work - a perfect opportunity to catch up with old friends. I was in the bleachers chatting away when suddenly my ears started ringing. People started screaming, and I saw blood spurting over everyone around me, not realizing it was mine.  The bat had slipped from the batter's hand into the bleachers and onto my forehead. Surprisingly, I was not knocked out. (Hard-headed, aren't I?).  

My skull was fractured in four places; I had a subdural hematoma and concussion and needed twenty-eight stitches. While getting stitched up, my mother held my hand.  Remembering the upcoming baptism, I squinted through black and blue swollen eyes and said, "See, God doesn't want me." Sadly, I believed it for many more years and continued my descent into the dark abyss of promiscuity and alcoholism. 

It took twenty-nine more years, two failed marriages, a mental health crisis, and a battle with alcoholism to bring me to the point of surrender.  It was in the rooms of AA that I began to understand that God had never abandoned me. His unwavering love and mercy, even in the darkest times, gave me hope and marked the beginning of my journey toward redemption. 

I met my late husband in AA.  A few years into our marriage, he felt compelled to "go home," and I tagged along. I loved everything about this faith community and wanted to be part of it, so I signed up for RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults). I can still see the joy on my parents' faces. It was a "prodigal daughter" moment.  On 4/15/2006, I "took the plunge" (literally - it was total immersion).

Contrary to the Methodist baptism, I wasn't doing it to please anyone...I wanted it for me. During the process, I had periods of doubt and feelings of unworthiness. A sudden fear enveloped me as I stood at the edge of the baptismal font.  It sounds ridiculous, but I thought once I entered the water, it would boil with the amount of sin I carried … killing me and Father Jim. I wanted to turn around and run.   I didn't run, though….the Holy Spirit was nudging me along.

In reality, God never abandoned me; I abandoned Him.  He always wanted me, but I wasn't ready to surrender.   I sometimes kick myself for taking so long, for the time I lost in my struggle, but it all happened in God's time, not mine, and the lessons learned are priceless.