Here’s what to do to emerge more vital than ever.
This would be the day. The day I’d planned for and thought about for weeks. It was my favorite season. Spring had sprung. If I was going to be taken out, I wanted my last memories to be the scent of lilacs and that happy feeling inside that summer was finally arriving after the seven months of winter in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
My scheme hatched during a daily mass when Father Donnelly described the fires of hell and, in the next breath, extolled the depth and virtue of God’s love for me by offering his only begotten Son for my sins. Sister James Patricia repeated the same stories in daily religion class. She read from the large Children’s Catholic Bible on her lap, and when she finished, she turned the book around for all to see, slowly moving it across the clump of seven-year-olds sitting cross-legged at her feet. Our wide eyes scanned the red devil holding a pitchfork, and our mouths hung open in awe of Jesus, grasping a staff as the supernatural aura of Almighty God shimmered all around.
My brave and curious nature was unsatisfied with such drastic contradictions of truth. I summoned the courage and devised a plan to test God’s benevolence while simultaneously risking the fires of hell with one single, carefully crafted confrontation.
On this ordinary afternoon, I walked home with a most extraordinary mission in mind. Our two-car attached garage had a five-foot mirror inside, and I quickly and solidly planted my feet before my courage fell flat.
“I hate you, God!” I screamed.
After a full 30 seconds, my body loosened. I exhaled slowly, opened my eyes, and examined myself for injury. I glanced outside to see my neighbors’ homes untouched and ran upstairs to be sure my blasphemy did not strike down my loved ones.
This was my earliest memory of challenging an idealized belief or religious indoctrination, but it would not be the last time. Individuals, leaders, philosophies, and beloved communities I’d elevated over my life would shatter at my feet. I remain grateful that in whatever cognitive musings an eight-year-old could muster, I landed on God loving me more than any “evil retribution” might warrant. My belief in a Higher Power’s compassion and benevolence would serve me well henceforth when unrealistic expectations and my longing for internal or external perfection let me down.
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