The day after I was released from the psych ward I was taking a bus to get my prescriptions filled and realized I wasn't going to make the rest of the day without buying and using drugs. I had attended an AA meeting during my stay and was told about Narcotics Anonymous (NA). I called their number and found a local meeting.
I began attending meetings but was unable to work any of the 12 steps as I could not reconcile myself with any perception of a higher power. I was raised in the 7th Day Adventist cult (a cult is defined as: a small religious group that is not part of a larger and more accepted religion and that has beliefs regarded by many people as extreme or dangerous) and subsequently spent time in a Southern Baptist church. In both environments I was expected to be able to tell a friend that she would burn in the fiery pits of hell if she did not believe exactly and precisely as I did! The words arrogance and hypocrisy both come to mind. In my mind these views were simply veiled hatred, and I simply found myself unable to use the word "hate" in any context, even finding the phrase "love the sinner, hate the sin" to be offensive as it too often masked a deep rooted intolerance of other beliefs, cultures, faith etc. I studied and participated in a number of religious types, denominations, and activities, but never found anything that I could accept.
Perhaps four or five months after I began going to NA meetings I was told by a friend about Metropolitan Community Church, a church where I found that I could feel at home with my fellows from the LGBTQ community. Unfortunately, I found myself still unable to either pray or accept my spirituality. Over the past decade I had studied quantum physics, genetics, evolution, archaeology, astrophysics, and many other branches of science, finally coming to the same decision (albeit by a more lowly path) that Stephen Hawking did; there is no place in the universe for God. I had allowed my intellect to completely overwhelm and subdue my spirituality. Although I read the words of Jesus, I read them as though Jesus were a great philosopher, and they brought me no comfort. Mahatma Ghandi told us to "Be the change you wish to see in the world". I believe that to be a wise saying, but it brings me no comfort when I am ill or in distress. Jesus told us in Matthew 15:11 that "It is not what goes into your mouth but rather that which come out of your mouth that defiles you". This is perhaps my favorite of all the words of Jesus, and you will find it re-stated in his teachings in several ways. Still, it brought me neither comfort nor solace when I read it simply as a statement of philosophy, the same as I read Ghandi.
After almost eight months clean, I relapsed and spent the next four or five months sinking back into the same pit of despair that I had been in prior to my visit to the psych ward the prior year. As I lay dying, and wishing for death, in my car in the last few days before I checked myself voluntarily into treatment, I made no contract with God. My faith is not a "foxhole prayer"; I actively sought my death during that last week, going so far as to see my physician attempting to get narcotics for "back pain" and "lack of sleep" which I intended to use to commit suicide, but she would not provide it. Neither is my faith "jailhouse religion"; I was arrested and incarcerated twice during the weeks before I went into rehab, both times being treated so unkindly and put in such horrible circumstances that I do not know if I will ever find myself able to trust an officer of the law again. Forgive; certainly. Trust; unlikely.
A friend and her husband, both kind and devout Christians drove to where I was living in my car to buy me some food and to share their love of Christ with me. I hadn't eaten but perhaps a few thousand calories in the past few weeks; I had an upper respiratory infection so bad I coughed and hacked constantly; I could not speak above a whisper because I had burned up my vocal chords smoking drugs out of a small glass "crack" pipe. I was so dehydrated I often couldn't swallow. I hadn't showered in days. I refused to spend any of my remaining money on food, water, cigarettes, or anything other than drugs. I had ran out of money even for drugs, and knew that I would not be able to prevent myself from turning back to prostitution the next day, as I had before, to feed my addiction. They bought me some food and helped me make the difficult decision to check myself into rehab the next day, where I feared being treated abusively, almost horrifically, as I had been treated in jails and institutions on prior "visits". Still, I remained an avowed atheist; there was no room in my life for a deity. I had neither prayed to nor cursed any deity during any of my experiences. I simply did not believe there was anything to pray to or curse.
My first week in rehab was a nightmare. I had only been allowed 14 days by the state, and refused to go to detox, wanting to go straight into the recovery program. As a state and donation supported facility I found the food to be simply inedible in my condition. Additionally, there were several women in the womens residential unit that were incredibly angry during their recovery, and the stress contributed to my inability to eat. On the third or perhaps fourth day (some things are a bit fuzzy) I collapsed in the bathroom after dry heaving until I thought my head was going to explode. I was discovered after the group session I had been in ended, and many people in scrubs scrambled about frenetically. After they determined that I was able, they helped me to my bed and went out to confer in the hall. Realizing that they were certainly planning to discharge me to a hospital, where I would spend zero time in recovery, but would eat better, I got up out of my bed and walked into the hall, hunched over like a centenarian. As I walked up to this huddle of men and women in scrubs they looked at me like they expected me to fall dead before them. I very simply begged them to let me stay.
I asked only to be given something I could eat. I begged them not to send me away. I begged them to allow me to stay in the group sessions. I told them in no uncertain terms that I wanted, that I needed to be where I was, that I would cause no trouble, and that I asked for nothing more than food that I could eat. They found me some chicken broth and light soups out of the donations received and made those available to me until I had recovered my ability to eat perhaps six or eight days later. Still, there was no room in my life for spirituality; intellect ruled my thoughts and actions; realizing of course that "my best thinking had gotten me here."
I asked only to be given something I could eat. I begged them not to send me away. I begged them to allow me to stay in the group sessions. I told them in no uncertain terms that I wanted, that I needed to be where I was, that I would cause no trouble, and that I asked for nothing more than food that I could eat. They found me some chicken broth and light soups out of the donations received and made those available to me until I had recovered my ability to eat perhaps six or eight days later. Still, there was no room in my life for spirituality; intellect ruled my thoughts and actions; realizing of course that "my best thinking had gotten me here."
During my stay I met a woman of faith. She had been in prison and was in the unit for treatment as I was. I found her to be an intelligent, well read, and willing conversationalist, something precious to me. Over the few days I had to talk to her we discussed the meaning of various passages in both the New and Old Testaments. I taunted her as Satan had taunted Jesus; was her faith not shaken by horrific accounts such as the commission of genocide in Joshua? How could she believe in a religion responsible for the horrors of the crusades. She held steadfastly to her faith and I was inspired.
A tiny bookshelf on the unit contained a book by Phillip Yancy "The Jesus I Never Knew". As a speed reader since a very early age I was able to devour the book in perhaps a day and a half. Upon reading Mr. Yancy's book I realized that, in all the time I spent searching for my spirituality, with all of my studying of various sciences and religions, I had forgotten one thing; I had forgotten to study the Bible.
A tiny bookshelf on the unit contained a book by Phillip Yancy "The Jesus I Never Knew". As a speed reader since a very early age I was able to devour the book in perhaps a day and a half. Upon reading Mr. Yancy's book I realized that, in all the time I spent searching for my spirituality, with all of my studying of various sciences and religions, I had forgotten one thing; I had forgotten to study the Bible.
Some of my earliest memories are of a small room with a felt board with biblical figures, other children, and a woman who undoubtedly was attempting to compete with the cookies and our inattention to help us understand a bit of scripture or teach us the words to a simple children's hymn. I was perhaps three or four at the time, so I've had fifty years of exposure to the book that has been printed more than any other. I was exposed to it by stories and pictures as a child, sermons and readings as a young person, I have read it as a history book, as a book of philosophy, as poetry, songs, lamentations, and professions of love. I had never read, nor studied the bible as an adult as map for my spirituality.
I re-read the New Testament there in rehab, using a paperback bible that had been given to me by a church charity, then I read again in more detail the gospels, then I went back to the gospels for words of inspiration during the daily, sometimes twice daily affirmations that we shared. I went back to the gospels and began highlighting passages that meant something to me as well as those that might mean something to the other women on the unit who I had come to love as I have never been able to love a friend. Still, I could not pray. Still, the words were wise, but they brought me neither comfort nor hope, nor did they bring me relief from the guilt and shame I had accumulated over a lifetime as an atheist and years as an addict and often, as a prostitute.
I asked if there was a chaplain in the facility, as I had no one to talk to now that my friend of faith had left, but there was none, nor was there any bible study, although we had 12 step (AA) meetings nightly. I was told by one of my friends that the therapist that I was seeing on the unit was an ordained minister. A few days later when I was able to see him he asked me, as he always does, "what brings you so far to see me?" I told him of my experience, and briefly, of my life, and asked him to help me pray. I had at this time accepted that I must accept Jesus Christ as my savior and God as the Lord of my life, but try as I might, I simply found myself unable to open my mouth and utter the words.
During that session I prayed to my Father for the first time in over thirty years, for the first time as the mature woman that I am, and for the first time with a full and complete knowledge of what I was doing, why I was doing it, and what it meant. I walked out of that session filled with the Holy Spirit. I was comforted. I had faith. I had hope. For the first time in many years I felt peace. The guilt and shame I had been feeling over my addiction, prostitution, and separation from my family was gone, leaving only a healthy regret and desire to make amends.
For the past year and a half, since I had spent almost eight months in Las Vegas as a "crack whore", I had heard music that no one else could hear. At first I thought it was a neighbor playing music too loud, but I couldn't recognize the music so I thought it was a band. I finally realized that my mind was fabricating "music" that simply was not there. It sounded like the tinny over-bleed from a cheap set of headphones. By the time I went into rehab it was almost a constant companion, sometimes coming out of white noise like rain on a roof and sometimes coming out of complete silence as when I was trying to sleep. I was going insane. I had used drugs (mostly "spice") so much and for so long that I had suffered brain damage. I heard it for the first week or so in rehab. I almost got up several times to see if my roommates were wearing headphones or earbuds to sleep, but I knew they weren't. I was hearing the distress call of my brain as it was dying.
Since the evening that I prayed in my therapists office I have not heard that "music", not once. My only change in medication was to begin taking sertraline, which should fog my thinking if anything, and I had only begun taking that a few days before, not time for it to have any effect. I think clearer now than I have at any time in memory. God healed me both emotionally and physically. As a scientist and engineer I looked for every possible option to explain this, but I am left with only the explanation that the Holy Spirit filled me and made me whole.
For the past year and a half, since I had spent almost eight months in Las Vegas as a "crack whore", I had heard music that no one else could hear. At first I thought it was a neighbor playing music too loud, but I couldn't recognize the music so I thought it was a band. I finally realized that my mind was fabricating "music" that simply was not there. It sounded like the tinny over-bleed from a cheap set of headphones. By the time I went into rehab it was almost a constant companion, sometimes coming out of white noise like rain on a roof and sometimes coming out of complete silence as when I was trying to sleep. I was going insane. I had used drugs (mostly "spice") so much and for so long that I had suffered brain damage. I heard it for the first week or so in rehab. I almost got up several times to see if my roommates were wearing headphones or earbuds to sleep, but I knew they weren't. I was hearing the distress call of my brain as it was dying.
Since the evening that I prayed in my therapists office I have not heard that "music", not once. My only change in medication was to begin taking sertraline, which should fog my thinking if anything, and I had only begun taking that a few days before, not time for it to have any effect. I think clearer now than I have at any time in memory. God healed me both emotionally and physically. As a scientist and engineer I looked for every possible option to explain this, but I am left with only the explanation that the Holy Spirit filled me and made me whole.
I did not come to my Father because I was in pain. I did not come to my Father because I was destitute and homeless. I did not come to my Father because I had estranged myself from my family and friends. I accepted all these things; I accepted my responsibility for them; I accepted the consequences of them. I came to my Father because, for the first time in memory, I had found myself in a position where I was able to love and to be loved as myself and without shame. Other women on the unit had no shoes or coats. I had extra, I gave them freely, and my heart opened a little. Others were in pain. I said a kind word or offered a shoulder, and my heart was opened more. When I was so ill I could barely speak, was coughing and vomiting almost continuously and snapped at those around me, I was offered kind words, an extra coat when we were outside and I was chilled, and my heart opened even more. I read the word of God and found truth and love.
I still believe in evolution and that man evolved from apes. I still wonder at the miracle of quantum entanglement. I still believe that the universe is approximately 13.8 billion years old and the earth is approximately 4.5 billion years old. I still believe that the speed of light is constant throughout the universe (e=mc2) and that no physical object can approach the speed of light due to the infinite increase in mass. I still don't believe that inter-stellar travel is possible due to e=mc2 and that the use of wormholes is impossible due to time dilation (although I do not discount future discoveries such as traversable wormholes). I still believe that there is no time outside the beginning of the universe. What's my point? Simply; what difference does any of this make?
I searched for years for my spirituality. As an educated woman and a speed reader I have learned so much about so many things that I find myself all too frequently stopping conversations simply by trying to join them and (unintentionally) taken them to a depth with which others are not comfortable. Some of these things I have knowledge of casually and some with enough depth to speak with scholars on the subject. I've studied in depth or casually (casually to me may mean something different than casually to the reader) and discussed in depth with adherents the philosophies of Christianity, Buddhism, Native American religions, Wicca, and others. None of these allowed me to accept my spirituality and to connect with what the 12 step programs refer to as a "higher power".
Only when I finally had read and understood the words in red as an educated and informed scientist, engineer, and woman; when I had found myself in an environment where I was accepted and loved in my lowest and basest form; when I had allowed myself to feel and share love and compassion with my fellows both exalted and humbled; only when I had exhausted every other path with complete and total disregard to my safety, comfort and reputation, forsaking even my family and friends; only when I found the strength to simply ask God to come into my life, to forgive me, and to help me understand his will for me and to show me the path he would have me take; only then and only now have I found comfort.
My prayer that evening in my therapists office was one of thanks. I thanked God for allowing me to take a path and to take up burdens that weakened me enough that I could see. I asked Him only for enough time that my children would know that I had recovered and had turned my life around. Other than that I asked Him only to use me as He would to glorify His word. I had been told to be careful about telling God you'd follow whatever path he desired for me, but after years of addiction, multiple suicide attempts, multiple overdoses, and living as a prostitute, I figured that God had done enough for me by just keeping me alive. If He has a bus under which He'd like me to throw myself, so be it.
My prayer that evening in my therapists office was one of thanks. I thanked God for allowing me to take a path and to take up burdens that weakened me enough that I could see. I asked Him only for enough time that my children would know that I had recovered and had turned my life around. Other than that I asked Him only to use me as He would to glorify His word. I had been told to be careful about telling God you'd follow whatever path he desired for me, but after years of addiction, multiple suicide attempts, multiple overdoses, and living as a prostitute, I figured that God had done enough for me by just keeping me alive. If He has a bus under which He'd like me to throw myself, so be it.
My therapist, on hearing my story, reminded me of the story of Saul on the road to Damascus. Saul became Paul who wrote 13 of the 21 letters in the New Testament. There are 4 Gospels, Acts (the story of the formation of the new church after the resurrection), and Revelations, for a total of 27 books in the New Testament. Paul wrote almost half of the books that we use for our understanding of the word of God (not by word count, but by inclusion of books). Paul had been rounding up Christians, both men and women, watching as they were stoned to death or put in prison then executed. He went to the synagogues and obtained letters allowing him to take what was effectively a "lynch mob" to Damascus where he would continue to kick down the doors of homes, churches, temples, and synagogues where Christians were worshiping, dragging them off to be killed in a brutal manner. He was essentially the Hermann Göring of his time, gladly committing the most horrific crimes against humanity in the name of an evil regime. If God could forgive Saul and choose him to witness for His word, couldn't I be forgiven as well?
Saul was wicked, as was I. God struck Saul down, as he struck me down. God gave Saul two choices; live as a blind beggar or walk His path. God gave me two choices; jails, institutions, or death, or walk his path. Saul spent a few days in Damascus with the disciples and then immediately began sharing the word of God wherever he could. I spent a short time understanding my faith and then immediately began sharing the word of God with my fellows in the program as well as staff, and now my family and friends and those I meet at church or at recovery meetings. Saul had no shame in his faith, nor do I. Saul had no fear in his faith, stating in II Corinthians 11:23-29 that he had been flogged, beaten, and shipwrecked. Ok, perhaps I'm not as fearless as Paul! But I am a work in progress!
How has this changed my life? Both a lot and very little. I am truly happy and at peace for the first time in memory. I feel like I have a purpose in life after having told friends for months prior to my self imposed horror that I had felt lost. I have hope for both myself and for my friends and family. Still, I am destitute; I am not however homeless, nor am I without love. I am living with my mother and will move towards getting a job so that I can contribute, pay my legal fees, and help my kids, friends, and family. These things haven't changed, but my approach to them has.
If a friend had told me six months ago that she had accepted God and that God had physically healed her, I would have listened quietly while feeling pity for my friend, believing that her mind had gone. But now I'm the friend telling you that God healed me. If I could explain what happened to me in any other way, I assure you that I would! The last thing I ever wanted to be was a Christian, and yet God had mercy on me and let me become one anyway.
No doubt He knew that I would not accept any evidence if it could be explained away by any other phenomena. How do I explain away the healing of brain damage other than by His grace? I cannot. You might think that the falling away of my guilt and shame I might be able to explain away. I cannot. I had just spent a year in 12 step programs trying to get rid of them, but was constantly sharing in the 'burning desire' time because I simply could not get over them. My constant relapse was almost solely because I simply could not stand who I was and who I had been. All of that is gone.
Define the word 'miracle'. Wikipedia defines it as '...an event not ascribable to human power or the laws of nature...' I had been to medical doctors and had taken medications. I had tried to heal myself by thinking positively. By any definition, what happened to me is a miracle. As an engineer and scientist who is an advocate of the scientific method, if I assume no a priori knowledge, I must accept the conclusion that what happened to me is a miracle.
For those of you who do not understand evolution, the big bang theory, genetics, etc., I can tell you that you are fortunate. It is a far greater leap of faith to be a scientist who believes that man evolved from apes over the past six or seven million years, and that the earth was formed from clouds of gas four and a half billion years ago than it is to recognize the truth in science and simultaneously accept the truth of Gods word. Jesus told us to "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind." That's worth repeating again; "...and with all your mind."
I don't believe He intended us to put blinders on and worship him in ignorance. Most of the people that I know who believe in a literal creation story go to modern doctors and drive modern cars and cook on modern ovens and live in modern, heated homes. They don't go to faith healers when they or their children or loved ones are sick. These people are hypocritically accepting the branches of science which afford them comfort while simultaneously rejecting the branches of science which challenge their faith. Is their faith in God not strong enough to withstand science? If their faith in God is stronger than their faith in science, why do they not simply pray for healing or go to a faith healer?
Every day now I pray to my Father and ask him, among other things, "Father, help me with my unbelief!" Every day I must remind myself of the miracle that He bestowed on me lest my mind slip back into the thinking of the atheist scientist that I was before. My faith is strong enough to withstand my intellectual beliefs. Did not Jesus tell us to love the Lord with all your mind?
My interpretation of the parable of the yeast and the dough is that the Holy Spirit is the yeast and we are the dough. We only need let in the Holy Spirit a tiny bit, but then, just like you must knead yeast thoroughly into dough, working to ensure that is completely spread, we have to work to ensure that the Holy Spirit permeates all of who we are, accepting it into all areas of our lives and our persons. It might be harder to accept God if I also believe in evolution, but Jesus told me to love with my mind as well as my heart and soul, and he told me I would have to work to integrate that love into all areas of my life.
Yes, It's hard being a Christian. What's your point?
If a friend had told me six months ago that she had accepted God and that God had physically healed her, I would have listened quietly while feeling pity for my friend, believing that her mind had gone. But now I'm the friend telling you that God healed me. If I could explain what happened to me in any other way, I assure you that I would! The last thing I ever wanted to be was a Christian, and yet God had mercy on me and let me become one anyway.
No doubt He knew that I would not accept any evidence if it could be explained away by any other phenomena. How do I explain away the healing of brain damage other than by His grace? I cannot. You might think that the falling away of my guilt and shame I might be able to explain away. I cannot. I had just spent a year in 12 step programs trying to get rid of them, but was constantly sharing in the 'burning desire' time because I simply could not get over them. My constant relapse was almost solely because I simply could not stand who I was and who I had been. All of that is gone.
Define the word 'miracle'. Wikipedia defines it as '...an event not ascribable to human power or the laws of nature...' I had been to medical doctors and had taken medications. I had tried to heal myself by thinking positively. By any definition, what happened to me is a miracle. As an engineer and scientist who is an advocate of the scientific method, if I assume no a priori knowledge, I must accept the conclusion that what happened to me is a miracle.
For those of you who do not understand evolution, the big bang theory, genetics, etc., I can tell you that you are fortunate. It is a far greater leap of faith to be a scientist who believes that man evolved from apes over the past six or seven million years, and that the earth was formed from clouds of gas four and a half billion years ago than it is to recognize the truth in science and simultaneously accept the truth of Gods word. Jesus told us to "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind." That's worth repeating again; "...and with all your mind."
I don't believe He intended us to put blinders on and worship him in ignorance. Most of the people that I know who believe in a literal creation story go to modern doctors and drive modern cars and cook on modern ovens and live in modern, heated homes. They don't go to faith healers when they or their children or loved ones are sick. These people are hypocritically accepting the branches of science which afford them comfort while simultaneously rejecting the branches of science which challenge their faith. Is their faith in God not strong enough to withstand science? If their faith in God is stronger than their faith in science, why do they not simply pray for healing or go to a faith healer?
Every day now I pray to my Father and ask him, among other things, "Father, help me with my unbelief!" Every day I must remind myself of the miracle that He bestowed on me lest my mind slip back into the thinking of the atheist scientist that I was before. My faith is strong enough to withstand my intellectual beliefs. Did not Jesus tell us to love the Lord with all your mind?
My interpretation of the parable of the yeast and the dough is that the Holy Spirit is the yeast and we are the dough. We only need let in the Holy Spirit a tiny bit, but then, just like you must knead yeast thoroughly into dough, working to ensure that is completely spread, we have to work to ensure that the Holy Spirit permeates all of who we are, accepting it into all areas of our lives and our persons. It might be harder to accept God if I also believe in evolution, but Jesus told me to love with my mind as well as my heart and soul, and he told me I would have to work to integrate that love into all areas of my life.
Yes, It's hard being a Christian. What's your point?
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