Monday, August 27, 2007 at 12:12am
I cried out and God answered
Column: Woman at the Well
Is it always darkest before the dawn? Where were you when you first realized your life was of more value than simply breathing in and breathing out? When did God, or the awareness of a higher power or a significant meaning, break upon your day-to-day awareness? I was 15 and in the throes of adolescent despair and suicidal angst.
I spent so much of my time feeling sorry for myself that I was beginning to contemplate ways to end it all. Being a practical sort, and unwilling to add pain to my pain, I had eliminated weapons. I had no access to drugs and wasn't at all sure how that would work. Could too much aspirin kill you? I was an innocent and truly more attached to my suffering than to actually relieving it.
One Saturday afternoon I decided to get out of my lonely bedroom with its sad collection of 45s and its beautiful view of the distant skyline and walk myself over to the local Presbyterian Church, where I thought I might be able to just be alone and cry my heart out.
Churches were open all day every day in those days.
I walked into the high-ceilinged sanctuary and up to the wide, three-stepped chancel and altar. I sat down on the first step, folded myself headfirst onto the top step and began to sob.
Adolescent emotional hysteria turned to a kind of chanting demand of no one in particular - perhaps of God: "Why doesn't anyone give a damn about me? Why doesn't anyone care? Why doesn't anyone give a damn? Why?" I was into it, full throttle.
And then I heard a voice, plain as day, calmer than circumstances would suggest, simply say: "Why don't you give a damn about somebody else?"
I was shocked. Stopped in my tracks. Embarrassed. Who's been watching me? Who's there? I got up and searched the building, the exits, the grounds. No one was there. No one.
But I had heard it. Someone had heard me. I was not alone. Everything shifted. I walked out of that sanctuary glowing, so full of joy, as if all the sorrow and self-pity I had ever felt was transformed in an instant into compassion and wonder. I had been given a simple directive.
I wanted to share my joy with someone. I had a favorite jitterbug dance partner who lived not far from the church. I went to tell him what had happened. Twenty years later I ran into him in another town. He immediately reminded me of that day. He told me he had felt like he was in the presence of someone who had just seen the face of God. He remembered how I glowed.
I'm not all that, but my experience of that encounter with the divine has never left me. I know now, even in the darkest of woods, that I am never alone.
— — —
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.
I spent so much of my time feeling sorry for myself that I was beginning to contemplate ways to end it all. Being a practical sort, and unwilling to add pain to my pain, I had eliminated weapons. I had no access to drugs and wasn't at all sure how that would work. Could too much aspirin kill you? I was an innocent and truly more attached to my suffering than to actually relieving it.
One Saturday afternoon I decided to get out of my lonely bedroom with its sad collection of 45s and its beautiful view of the distant skyline and walk myself over to the local Presbyterian Church, where I thought I might be able to just be alone and cry my heart out.
Churches were open all day every day in those days.
I walked into the high-ceilinged sanctuary and up to the wide, three-stepped chancel and altar. I sat down on the first step, folded myself headfirst onto the top step and began to sob.
Adolescent emotional hysteria turned to a kind of chanting demand of no one in particular - perhaps of God: "Why doesn't anyone give a damn about me? Why doesn't anyone care? Why doesn't anyone give a damn? Why?" I was into it, full throttle.
And then I heard a voice, plain as day, calmer than circumstances would suggest, simply say: "Why don't you give a damn about somebody else?"
I was shocked. Stopped in my tracks. Embarrassed. Who's been watching me? Who's there? I got up and searched the building, the exits, the grounds. No one was there. No one.
But I had heard it. Someone had heard me. I was not alone. Everything shifted. I walked out of that sanctuary glowing, so full of joy, as if all the sorrow and self-pity I had ever felt was transformed in an instant into compassion and wonder. I had been given a simple directive.
I wanted to share my joy with someone. I had a favorite jitterbug dance partner who lived not far from the church. I went to tell him what had happened. Twenty years later I ran into him in another town. He immediately reminded me of that day. He told me he had felt like he was in the presence of someone who had just seen the face of God. He remembered how I glowed.
I'm not all that, but my experience of that encounter with the divine has never left me. I know now, even in the darkest of woods, that I am never alone.
— — —
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.