Spirituality in my young life existed on two plains – that which I knew from my heart, and that which I watched in the world around me. The “outer world” concept of a higher power was demonstrated by the obligatory family trips to the Methodist church on Christmas and Easter. During these times, I would wear an itchy, frilly dress, sit in a hard pew, and watch my father write the big check to place in the shiny bowl that passed our way. I looked like the happy girl in the nice family swinging her black patented leather shoes and hoping for that robed man to be quiet so I could get out of there.
But the robed man seem to go on forever and speak of scary things like being nailed to a cross after which he passed around little cups of “blood” that we were supposed to drink. But this was all a good thing because God loved us so much that killing his son for us was going to make us all better.
Just what every abused kid needs to know, right?
It appeared that God and my father had a few things in common. They were both angry men who ruled the roost and abused others – but they would both emphasize that it was really for your own good. Through my tears and sobs, I remember my dad saying how much he hated to give me those enemas (his abuse of choice), week after week, but he just didn’t have any other option because I was a failure in the pooping department. Such were the “sins” of a five-year-old that God, the Father, would set straight - even if it pained him in the process.
The God of the “outer world” had failed me miserably, but the God of My Heart saved my life. This God would show up during my moments of greatest trial and pain – the times when I “left” the abusive experience and traveled to a place of protection. Scientists of brain chemistry might call this splitting “dissociation”, but I call it Divine Intervention. The God of My Heart was felt but not seen, was nameless but was all, and was mission-driven but carried no agenda of deceit. If I were to place a human image upon this energy, I would see it as a wise and loving Mother God with a fabulous gilded shield for deflecting damage to the soul. The God of My Heart allowed me to remain intact at my core while my physical self endured the torture. It was as if I was being touched and untouched at the same time.
I owe all that I am and all that I will become to the God of My Heart, but she holds no expectations of me. Her mission is to support me through my darkest times, and uplift me in my life journey. I believe this is the nature of unconditional, pure love. The greatest gift that I have pulled out of misery is the deep knowledge of, and relationship with, this mighty force of good.