I am not one to believe in coincidences.  “Coincidence” is defined as a “striking occurrence of two or more events at one time apparently by mere chance” (dictionary.com).  It is hard to reconcile this idea of mere luck or chance with my belief in a God who has “authority over all things in heaven and on earth”.  I don’t want to imply that God is a grand puppeteer, though, who pulls the strings on each and every breath I take and every decision I make.  He has given me free will, the ability to choose a path, sometimes daily.

I also do not like the idea of jumping on the “new year” bandwagon- being one of the many posting about how I will approach the upcoming year, full of well-meaning resolutions and commitments to live a healthier, more significant life.  But when the same theme or verse comes up more than once or twice in the various readings I do on a daily basis, I do think the God who has authority over heaven and earth might be trying to get my attention, intending to give me some direction as to which path I should choose.  That it happened to occur on the first few days of a new year, perhaps that is the “coincidence”.

What is that word or theme that keeps coming up?  It’s “GO”- GO, even though you don’t know where you’re going (Hebrews 11:8); “GO and make disciples…” (Matthew 28:18-20); to go “unashamedly” (Phil. 1:20).  Now, I don’t believe I’m supposed to pack my belongings and head out for parts unknown in my little Miata (some might suggest that my shoe collection would take up most of the trunk!), but I do believe there are other ways of “going” without ever leaving this chair at my dining room table.  So as self-serving as it may seem to some, I will “go” by writing, by sharing how that God with authority over heaven and earth has changed my life, and has brought me to the place where I am today.  And perhaps the result of this small step in obedience is that someone else will also be challenged to go, to follow where God may be leading them.

When I really think about the reason I started this blog, and this whole idea of “redemption”, of going from ashes to beauty, I need to acknowledge what God has given me to accomplish what I believe is His purpose for my life.  All I have is just that-my life, and the experiences and decisions, good and bad, which have led me to this place.  So by sharing just a little of that story with each post, perhaps I can encourage you that God has a purpose for you as well; that your struggles and sufferings are not in vain; that they are not wasted time, but “challenges and opportunities”.  I have come to understand that if I am to go unashamedly and make disciples then I must tell others what my life was like before and after I gave God authority over that life.

So where to start?  I have some photographs of myself as a child which I keep in the front of one of my devotional books.  It was a suggestion by a woman we called “Lady Mike” over 30 years ago when I was beginning my struggle for sobriety in church basements in Northern New Jersey.  She wasn’t promoting the then-popular Bradshaw movement of reclaiming the “child within”, but rather encouraging us to treat ourselves gently, as we would a young child, a child with innocence yet unaffected by heartaches and poor choices. I look at those photos almost every day and try to recall what that little girl was thinking, how she felt at the moment the camera lens snapped that picture.

Although I may recall many of the life events from my childhood, I really have a hard time getting a handle on the feelings surrounding those events, other than the feeling of shame, of not being “good enough”.  I have come to learn that no one is to blame for these feelings; I wasn’t “shamed” into things, or made to feel less than.  It seems, rather, that those feelings came about as a result of spending many years trying to achieve the unattainable goal of perfection, or at least acceptance.  The problem with that is the standard I was trying to meet was not the one set by God, who has authority over everything, but by man- not one specific “man”, but just humankind in general.  There were the rules of the church I grew up in, put in place mainly to give a sense of order to worship; there were the rules my parents established, created lovingly for my protection, for the most part; there were rules in school, in the workplace, in social settings, in marriage.  None of them made complete sense, and certainly no one could keep them all.  And so the result was shame, a sense of failure, the feeling of never measuring up.

I remember first feeling that way when I was in the 6^th grade, caught in that awful time in between childhood and adolescence, with the chubbiness that often accompanies puberty.  I was never really thin, but now I had “crossed over” into overweight.  My father made a deal with me-if I could get my weight under 100 lbs., I could have anything (within reason) that I wanted!  Music was a huge part of my life, an escape from reality.  It afforded a wonderful trip into a world where I could woo crowds with my sultry renditions of love songs like Patti Page and Nancy Wilson.  So I decided my reward for this great achievement would be a stereo.  I still remember the day that I got on that scale and it read “98 lbs.”  I immediately called my father at work and announced that I had done it!  I had achieved the goal that had been set, that arbitrary number that somehow made me worthwhile, and I was to be rewarded.  My dad happily brought home that stereo that very night, and life was wonderful.  I was no longer ashamed of my appearance.

Of course, my sense of accomplishment was short-lived.  There is no way to maintain that feeling of victory, of self-worth, when we are trying desperately to meet standards set by man by using self-will and perseverance, attributes which I was taught were the bedrock for success.  We moved from the city of Teaneck, where I had spent all my life to that point, into the woods of Pennsylvania- a lake community in the little town of Pocono Lake, 20 miles from the nearest school, with only one other family living there year-round.  I had absolutely no skills in the arena of making friends, had no real athletic or artistic abilities which might help me connect with a certain group, and was one of those unfortunate pre-teens who “developed” earlier than others.   I spent those two years in Pennsylvania feeling like an outcast, an afterthought, not really knowing where I fit in.  I loved going for walks up along the top of the little ski slope in our community, along the ridge where old stone walls had once stood, imagining who might have lived there, creating romantic stories of worlds where everyone was loved and accepted.  I had my first job in that little community, working at a snack shop called “The Chipmunk Snack Bar”.  At 12 or 13 years old, I felt a little important that I could run a cash register and serve hot dogs to the summer visitors.  But then we moved again, this time to Sussex County, New Jersey.  And I began that life-defining journey known as high school. 

So, you might ask, where was God in all of this?  Where did the One who has authority over heaven and earth fit in my view of things?  He was always a presence, but not one which I acknowledged with reverence or admiration.  He was certainly mentioned often, especially by my mother, who had a deep faith in all things “holy”.  She regularly gave God the credit for many “miracles” in her life; it was God that blessed her with her family, her children, her home.  She was not ashamed to use His name, and we were all raised in church every week, both on Sunday and in weekly catechism classes.  We observed the holy days, and took part in all the sacraments.  If we forgot our chapel veils on Sunday morning, she would always be prepared with Kleenex and bobby pins, affixing them to our heads so we wouldn’t enter God’s house showing any irreverence. 

I followed the rules out of a vague sense of obedience, because I wanted to gain approval from my parents, or from the power or powers that be.  But in high school I began to question the validity of these rules.  I started to see my mother and others who had faith such as hers as weaker than those who operated on intellect and will power.  And, of course, I wanted to be a part of that stronger, more “successful” group.  The educated elite.  And so God was dismissed as fantasy, as not having any connection to a successful, productive life.  And my journey into the pit, that place of “ashes”, began.