My God Story

I’ve got a history of bridging. Not to give the impression that I’m steady. I’m kind of a rope bridge free to sway back and forth.

I love the inner city. and the suburbs. and the rolling foothills of acreages. All.

I see the merits of being a stay-at-home mom and of being a working mom. You’ll find only an ally with me there.

While I’m sure Breastfed is best. If you can’t take it and quit before leaving the hospital- heck, I understand. I’m on your side.

I’ve voted conservative. Then liberal for a period. Then conservative again (oops!). And ultimately I see both sides. So it all depends. For example, in the US elections, it will take A LOT to vote conservative again for a while. What I really wish was that the candidates weren’t so polarizing. It’s like after a few years under one rule people want to swing so far the other way. and so it goes….

And in religion. (Well, not to confuse the two, I knew when I was very very little that I could talk to God and that He really enjoyed me sometimes and sometimes less so. It was like a secret I had. I’ve always felt like we had a special love affair, us two. So religion was always separate from that. Religion never “saved” me.)

So, in religion. I was raised Catholic. And really liked it. I’ve gotten to know some great priests and parishoners. I enjoyed the community feeling. I always enjoyed the ancient parts of it that were stimulating to the senses. Old songs sung along to an old pipe organ, big old cathedrals with statues and carvings everywhere, old incense and huge candles burning, old prayers spoken like a mantra, and light reflecting on me and the marble floor from old stained glass windows.

And then at age 11, when my mom left my dad, he got SAVED. Now we were hard-core speakin’-in-tongues dancin’-in-the-aisles non-denominational evangelicals. So I was joint custody between Catholic and that. In their new big carpeted palace. TV camaras rolling. And I wanted to know God this way too. I really studied it. I heard it all and I was determined to get it. And I knew the verses. And sometimes even tried getting my mom to understand why the Catholics were damned.

And then I ran away from God. Because I’d broken up with my boyfriend who was my youth pastor at the Catholic church my first year of college. And because my cherry had gotten popped on accident once the first time I was fingered- so I was already going to HELL. And I had now determined that I was going to enjoy my University days away from anyone I knew. I didn’t want to be naive about things anymore. I wanted to know. I was tired of being told what to do and given such a small box to live in. I wanted to try pot (hated it!), I wanted to have sex. Mostly, I wanted to know for myself why I shouldn’t.

I did that for a long time. Every now and then I’d feel God’s eyes looking right at me. And I’d squint at the pain of knowing that He was still there for me. And I’d silently tell Him- I’ll come back, I promise, I’m not done yet, but You know I love You, I’ll come back and I’ll be Yours again. And You’ll be mine. And it will be good again.

I couldn’t do it though because I thought that God wanted me to be pious to be His friend. And I’d been given all these fancy ideas about what it meant to be good enough for God. (Why didn’t I ever question this??? Why did I let some holier-than-thous fool me??? I would have been so much more balanced- even before University- had I known God didn’t expect that from me. He didn’t expect me to be perfect. Not yet anyway.)

Anyway. I finally smartened up in 1998 when Desi and I had some marriage issues that felt like God was saying to both of us (his expats) that it was time to rely on Him again. We couldn’t find a church community in Louisiana that we connected with until Desi moved us back to Calgary in 1999 and took us to see Tom who he used to see at Tehila Mondays and then at Westside. And it felt refreshing right away.

I love Westside for that. Letting me bridge the gap between naughty Christie and pious Christie. Between all my expressions of love for God (my ancient Catholic God who appreciates meditation and red wine and chants and loving christian fellowship, my evangelical God who loves my dancing and charisma and attempts at perfection and the God who loved me even when I tried to run AS FAR AWAY from Him as I could.

I want HONEY

I’ve come to dislike the part of me that speaks with authority sometimes. I miss being obvious with my naivete. Always asking questions, wide-eyed and eager.

I still feel that girl inside. But now when I get excited I speak in sentences. The kind with a period. Or (let’s be real) an exclamation point! When maybe I should be using the kind with a question mark? It’s the question I’m working on inside.

I think with my 34th birthday soon approaching I will -purpose in my heart- to not be cool and know-it-all.

I think that always asking questions is what will keep me young. Unlike those damned Baby-boomers who I feel are always telling me what I should do and how I should do it- using their proved methods. They’ve stopped questioning. It’s all figured out. How boring their lives must be!? (Maybe I should ask them some time.)

I don’t want it figured out. I want it in fluid form. And not loose and runny like water, either. I want it thick and rich. Deep and sweet. Like honey.

Give me more honey, baby. I’m almost 34. And I’ve been a good girl.

Mostly.