God, part 2: Growing up

Little Katie grew up. Some of my books were Bible stories, others had moral lessons. There was an idea of what God liked – behavior He encouraged because it made Him happy. It’s nice when people are happy, and since I loved God, I was motivated to try to do those things – be kind to people, rejoice at the jingle of my change in the collection plate on Sunday morning, ask questions to I could understand Him better.

It was effortless. I learned and I accepted, and God and I marched forward, hand in hand, toward adulthood.

It’s not that I constantly thought of Him though. In fact, We have a history of being on and off. I’ll think about Him a lot sometimes – feel good and centered and strong – and make some necessary personal changes, grow kinder, feel completely together with God.

Then there are other times, to this day, where I’ll pull back. Take time to myself, be unfocused and silly and weak, and it reminds me of how strong an influence He is. Not that He’s ever absent – it’s my push and pull into then out of the relationship. I’m not sure He’d approve of my vast romance novel collection. I doubt He’s on board with how I can be irritated or careless when someone dares bother me at times. He sends a little twinge – not painful, just a reminder – when I’m behaving poorly. Because I need it – am, in fact, profoundly grateful for it – to think when I don’t remember myself.

It’s also important to realize that while Mom and Grandma went to church, and I sat between their legs encased in nylon and covered by pretty skirts, watching my patent leather shoes catch the light as I lightly swung my feet, Dad and Grandpa weren’t there.

They’d come when I was in a program, or during my brief stint as an acolyte in our church perched among mansions on the hill. So it wasn’t that they hated church, but they didn’t feel the need to go. It separated God from church in my mind.

God liked church, but it didn’t explain all of what He was to different people. That would also be a gift – the ability to judge churches as vehicles for teaching and community rather than containing exclusive communication rights with God.

I prayed daily and watched some of the needs get met. Realized that the requests God decided against were inappropriate anyway. I realized that for me “Your will be done.” was an overlooked yet vital part of the Lord’s Prayer which I now favored using at night. That in asking for things or worrying over them, I needed to institute some reminder to myself that I didn’t always know what was right for me. Though I knew God would provide what I needed rather than wanted, it was comforting to remember that very fact.

An example? OK, given after the Lord’s Prayer that ends with my own phrase I’ve used since grade school. “God bless all people, and animals, in the world, including Heaven.” I think Brother and I came up with it together when he, Mom and I would gather in his room at bedtime, hold hands and pray. Hence the caveats. I find it adorable, and even in my darkest of moments, conclude the prayer with it because, well, it’s silly and sometimes I need that.

“I like [insert crush’s name]. I think I could be happy with him, and he with me. I mean, I’d hurt him sometimes – be careless and foolish and insecure, but I’d really try to make him happy. So he should fall in love with me. Your will be done, though.

“But if You really don’t have strong feelings one way or the other, then perhaps we could go with my plan.

“I know. Your will be done, really. Help me remember that – when things don’t work out and when I’m hurt, find a way to remind me that it wasn’t meant to be. That You’re watching and sorry I’m sad, but that it’s worth it. OK?”

So while God didn’t provide my great love, He did provide those reminders. Every single time. For every single request that wasn’t honored. I felt him in some way that made me feel less alone.

Finally, I tend toward emotional extremes at times. Find myself being worried to the point of panic or anger morphing somehow into rage. I feel it, and can’t see out of it – know that it’s unhealthy to retain that intensity of feeling, but am unable to release it. In those moments, the really bad ones that leave me pacing and gasping for breath, I pray. Lie face down, bury my head in my hands and talk to God, begging for peace.

It always arrives. There hasn’t been a single instance where I have gone to him, broken, and returned from prayer healed. So we can debate my level of depression or the degree to which I might be bipolar. The truth is, I don’t know. I didn’t make it through enough therapy to make it to a diagnosis I trust before making a fearful retreat. But prayer, for me, makes the unbearable misery ease in mere moments.

I know the power of prayer on a personal level. It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t, and I honestly can’t say it exists for every single person. I know how it is for me.

Church, the experience, the songs, the readings, the dichotomy of the intensely personal private prayer mixed with the community of shared concerns and praises. It speaks to me. Makes me feel more complete and peaceful somehow.

It’s hard to describe, and I don’t know that I’ve done it here. At least there’s a hint of what I think about having grown my faith, and perhaps, for now, that’s enough.