Monday, August 20, 2007 at 1:01am
Into the darkness came an angel
Column: Woman at the Well
The dark woods of our lives carry painful memories - times we would just as soon forget. They also contain the rich fertilizer (some would call it s—) that helped us grow to be the adults we are today.
Where was God as we walked through the darkness? It is an important question, perhaps the central question of a spirit-filled life: Where is God in all of this?
At 14, I moved with my mom and two sisters to a new town with a new stepdad who wanted to make a good life for all of us. He was a sweet man, and I was unreasonably hard on him.
I had idolized my cheating father, blamed myself for his disappearing act, blamed Mom for the divorce, blamed her new husband for moving us to a new town where I had to start again - the weird, skinny, too-smart teenager in a large public high school full of cliques.
I spent my evenings and weekends crying or dancing in front of a mirror in my bedroom. I think my freshman-year English teacher, Miss Ethel May Shaw, a self-professed beatnik from somewhere in the South, was one of my personal angels. She required us to keep a journal, to write whatever we wanted, no judgments. She turned me on to the music of Bob Dylan, which seemed to say exactly what was on my heart ("It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleedin'"). She invited me out for a soda after reading my journal. "There seem to be a lot of thorns in your garden. Would you like to talk about them?"
I remember pouring my heart out to her over a large pineapple ice cream soda, weeping in gratitude that someone had noticed and cared about me.
The pain didn't really subside. Mom had always had a tendency to drink too much, and Stepdad was turning into a full-blown alcoholic. Family rages became the norm again.
I had a bedroom of my own with a window that faced the west. I watched airplanes landing across the bay at San Francisco International Airport into the setting sun, and I thought about possible ways to kill myself. I played a maudlin 45 called "My Dad" over and over on my stereo. I cultivated despair.
I am a child of extremes, and just as I was thinking things couldn't possibly get much worse, everything shifted. Where was God?
(To be continued.)
— — —
Rev. Kristi Denham is pastor of the Congregational Church of Belmont, California (United Church of Christ). Her email address is {email RevKristi@aol.com}RevKristi@aol.com{/email}. © Copyright 2007 by Kristi Denham.
Where was God as we walked through the darkness? It is an important question, perhaps the central question of a spirit-filled life: Where is God in all of this?
At 14, I moved with my mom and two sisters to a new town with a new stepdad who wanted to make a good life for all of us. He was a sweet man, and I was unreasonably hard on him.
I had idolized my cheating father, blamed myself for his disappearing act, blamed Mom for the divorce, blamed her new husband for moving us to a new town where I had to start again - the weird, skinny, too-smart teenager in a large public high school full of cliques.
I spent my evenings and weekends crying or dancing in front of a mirror in my bedroom. I think my freshman-year English teacher, Miss Ethel May Shaw, a self-professed beatnik from somewhere in the South, was one of my personal angels. She required us to keep a journal, to write whatever we wanted, no judgments. She turned me on to the music of Bob Dylan, which seemed to say exactly what was on my heart ("It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleedin'"). She invited me out for a soda after reading my journal. "There seem to be a lot of thorns in your garden. Would you like to talk about them?"
I remember pouring my heart out to her over a large pineapple ice cream soda, weeping in gratitude that someone had noticed and cared about me.
The pain didn't really subside. Mom had always had a tendency to drink too much, and Stepdad was turning into a full-blown alcoholic. Family rages became the norm again.
I had a bedroom of my own with a window that faced the west. I watched airplanes landing across the bay at San Francisco International Airport into the setting sun, and I thought about possible ways to kill myself. I played a maudlin 45 called "My Dad" over and over on my stereo. I cultivated despair.
I am a child of extremes, and just as I was thinking things couldn't possibly get much worse, everything shifted. Where was God?
(To be continued.)
— — —
Rev. Kristi Denham is pastor of the Congregational Church of Belmont, California (United Church of Christ). Her email address is {email RevKristi@aol.com}RevKristi@aol.com{/email}. © Copyright 2007 by Kristi Denham.