As a teenager I was often dragged to church, but even so my faith was strong. I was comfortable knowing that God was distant but present.
A high school friend asked me, “How can you love science and still believe in God?”
For me the answer was clear. I had begun to grasp a simple truth. The more I learned, the less I knew. There’s mystery in that; a kind of expansive, unknowable, mind-blowing mystery. I accepted the mystery by allowing it to permeate my consciousness without analysis. Back in high school, I recognized the limits of my mind.
Fifteen years later I found myself in a pressure cooker. My husband and I had constructed our lives around children, but there was one problem. We weren’t conceiving. A couple of years in, we finally went to a fertility clinic.
“Everything is fine,” we were told, “just keep on trying.”
And so we did. With nothing to hang our grief on, we kept trying. I was working in a job I hated, with no control over the realization of my deepest desire. Most critically, I had no coping skills for that level of stress. I lacked the ability to express my heartache and that deficiency kept my mind spinning in circles, like a hamster on a wheel.
“I should be grateful,” I’d tell myself. “I should be grateful for my husband, for my house. I should be grateful for my health, and even my dog!”
The mind, I discovered, is not designed for that kind of burden. It needs a regular break. And since I was in no position to give it one, it made an executive decision to take one. I was hospitalized for a psychotic break from reality. Through that dark time, I never lost hope. God was there. Distant but present.
By way of a very basic schedule, the hospital staff mediated the reintroduction of my heart and mind. Gradually, a peaceful reconnection was made and a bridge was built between the two. After two weeks I was released and soon after, my father was diagnosed with cancer. He deteriorated very quickly. But because I had learned to slow down, I was able to accompany him during the last months of his life. We spent many hours together, often not talking, just enjoying one another’s company. There are few things more sacred than comfortable silence.
The thoughts that came rushing in after his death threatened to, once again, unravel the core of me. So I talked with a psychologist and began the task of learning to express my feelings: The task of strengthening the bridge to my heart.
More than a year later, we adopted a child. We had been blessed! God was there, as always. Distant but present.
The process of adopting a second child, with special needs, made me realize that I needed a spiritual practice. Right around that time we learned of a house church, investigated and joined. That little house church was special. It was intimate and exactly what we needed, except … the leaders kept talking about Jesus! Somehow concentrating on Jesus made things personal, and brought my own flaws into sharp focus. It was an extremely frustrating time. My brain kept telling me to run but I didn’t for one reason.
The grace I felt from those leaders.
About six months later, we brought our second child home. She was welcomed into that small community with open arms. It was a wonderful time. Since then, we’ve been blessed by a larger, equally intimate church community. And by getting to know Jesus, I can have a relationship with God. I’ve never had a relationship with God before. He’s close now, and I feel more supported. More loved. More accepted.
In those moments when my mind-heart bridge is strong, the mysteries of life are allowed to, once again, permeate my consciousness without analysis. Somehow that bridge provides a space where transformation can take place; a space where the grace of God can enter.
I’m loved just as I am. There’s nothing for me to do. All those shoulds—the ones that drove me mad—they’re gone.
I’m forgiven, and I’m free to love.
