Women Have Issues

When I was five years old, my Daddy dropped me off at church every Sunday morning. He went home to read the newspaper. One day I said, “Daddy, did you know big people could come to church, too?” The next Sunday, he joined me at that Methodist church where he soon became a member and leader in the congregation.

Daddy died when I was eight.

After Daddy died, Mother dragged me to church every Sunday. Always in a snit, she yelled about wearing the correct clothes—dress, gloves, hats, slips—in order to look perfect.

 

The following summer, she dropped me off at a Baptist church to attend Vacation Bible School. Feeling alone with no friends and abandoned in an unfamiliar setting, I cried. I recall seeing a picture of a man they called Jesus. I stood before Him mesmerized, transfixed, drawn to His kind face. I remember the hand-held fans on a popsicle stick with a picture of an old white, wooden church. Mother never forced me to return.

During middle school, Mother enrolled me in membership classes at the Methodist church, which I hated. The leaders talked about Jesus, a man who came back to life after he died. Why didn’t my Daddy come back to life and come home? 

When the classes ended, I joined the church and received a Bible too hard to read much less understand. Since my gift served no other purpose for me, I used the pages to save a lock of my blond hair. In high school, Methodist Youth 

I left home and church to attend college. What a relief.

 

I never once attended church in college. After graduation when I married, I needed a church and a minister to perform the ceremony. The campus chapel with an unknown pastor sufficed. After we had two daughters, we both felt the nudge to attending church to get our girls baptized. Why? I don’t know. 

Both girls attended their pre-school, and the welcoming members included many young families similar to ours. I developed friendships with other young mothers and my husband joined the men’s softball team. I felt hopeful. We had found a place to belong. Until one note-worthy softball game. My husband, in a typical fit of rage, cussed out the preacher over a particular botched play. Shamed and embarrassed, we never returned to that church. The minister never called. We never discussed the incident. Years later, we divorced.

As a single parent, after moving to another city, my daughters met Christian students in their high school and wanted to attend church, so I obliged. They gave me a Bible with my name engraved on the front. My older daughter asked, “Mom, what do you think church is all about?” 

I said, “Values. Doing the right thing in life. Having good values.” She seemed to think I had missed the point. 

I walked the lonesome valley for 40 years, from the time Daddy died. 

My life became a tangled mess. To cope with layer upon layer of stressful emotional circumstances, I popped sleeping pills.

My health deteriorated. Facing an unexpected radical hysterectomy and unsuccessful hormone replacement therapy, I needed more sleeping pills. I reached my breaking point when the cardiologist called personally to reveal my scary diagnosis—ventricular tachycardia. I could drop dead any minute. 

My broken heart required more sleeping pills.

“God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life,” she said.

“Um, huh,” I replied.

“Man is sinful and separated from God,” she read.

“Oh”, I grunted.

“Jesus Christ is God’s only provision for man’s sin. He is the only way to God.”

“Hmm.”

“We must individually receive Jesus Christ as Savior and Lord.”

She pointed to a picture.

“These two circles represent two kinds of lives. One lifestyle, a self-directed life, does not include God. The other choice represents a life centered around God. Mom, which lifestyle is yours?”

“Well, I have no idea . . . that one I guess.” 

By process of elimination, I pointed to the circle labeled self-directed life. I never heard of the other option labeled God-directed life. She turned the page and continued.

“Mom, do you want to pray this prayer?”

“OK,” I said. I knew the correct answer was yes.

She prayed the sinner’s prayer with me. Then, dumbstruck, we just looked at each other.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Take a Bible study,” she replied. About that, I knew nothing. 

As I drove home, I had much to ponder in my heart. God must have reckoned that interaction to righteousness, because soon my life began to change in unexpected ways.