Becoming a mom didn’t solve my problems; it only made them more dangerous. It did, however, give me more determination to get them fixed. I had gone to counseling, but it didn’t change anything. I needed someone who could get IN there where the damage had been done and do some real healing. Who else? God.
But turning my life over to God was only the beginning. I moved away to become a member of the church my hippie-dippie friend recommended and attended, in Bowling Green, Ohio. Nevertheless, I was still broken, still felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. A few years later, I started to fall away from the church, and, just as I did, this good-looking young Mexican moved into my apartment complex. I was intrigued right away. I set my mind to have him, which put a period at the end of my church life.
When I fell away from the church, I did it with the intention of going back someday, when I had my stuff together, when I was good enough. I just couldn’t take all the rigid rules. I couldn’t live the way God evidently wanted me to. I knew God was “the FATHER,” and that messed me up something fierce, because I wasn’t particularly close to my dad.
One minute I would see God as my hero, the one who loved me beyond measure, the person I could run to with all my heartaches and troubles. The next minute he seemed like a harsh, critical God who had me under a microscope just waiting for me to mess up so he could zap me. I’m sure the devil really enjoys putting the latter image in our heads.
God knew exactly what I would be like when he called me to himself, he knew that I would need help doing right, that it would take practice. He was being patient with me. But I was deceived. So I decided to sort of keep God on the back burner in case of emergencies, and I was about to have a number of them.