Finding Faith, Part One: Childhood
Mar. 2nd, 2011 01:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelby_danversThis begins my blog series about my personal spiritual journey. See this post for the background info.
I was raised in a family that was very indifferent towards religion. My brother and I went to Sunday School, and I went on quite a few summer Bible camps, but that was about it. Once in a while, my parents would go to church instead of just dropping my brother and I off, but that was hardly the norm. There was never any discussion about what we had learned, either. What happened at church, stayed at church; that seemed to be the general attitude. I don't even really know why my parents insisted that we go, given their obvious lack of enthusiasm for it. I suppose they were pressured into thinking it was the right thing to do. Thinking back on it, I can't remember even seeing a Bible in our house, save for the copy of the New Testament that I had gotten as a gift from someone.
As for the actual religious part...well, it was all I really knew. I come from a small town where other religious beliefs just don't exist. Or if they do, they're pretty good at keeping quiet about it. That might have changed since I left town, I don't know. You were either a Christian or...well, nobody cared beyond that. And really, as a young girl, I didn't need to know anything else. God loved me, was the message they hammered home every Sunday. No matter what, God loved me. Do you have any idea what that can do to a kid whose parents only pay attention to her when she's done something wrong? I ate that stuff up like you wouldn't believe.
It didn't last. I don't know if it could have. I can't remember when, exactly, that I began my downward spiral. I have scattered memories. Bits and pieces, here and there. The strongest memory is approaching my mother and telling her that I wanted to drop out of the Girl Guides because they kept talking about that God stuff. I became too old to go to Sunday School anymore, and regular church bored me to tears. Without all the stories and plays and activities to keep my attention, I had to find faith in God on my own. And it just wasn't there. But that didn't mean I was about to give up. I joined at least two more Bible studies, but I was so slow to accept what they were teaching that I kept being held back. Needs more study, they said. I'm sure rumors went around that I was stupid, that I was a special needs kid or something. It wasn't for a lack of trying, it just didn't bloody make any sense anymore!
As my struggles in faith continued, the struggles in life increased. Life started to fall apart around me. Beloved family pets died. My grandfather died. My parents separated. I entered high school. Bullying, teasing, ridicule. No one to talk to, no one to help. I can't even begin to express the number of tearful pleas to God I made. Just listen to me, help me, please do something, anything, I can't take this anymore! I felt as if I was dying inside.
The one thing I do remember vividly is the exact moment I gave up. This requires fast-forwarding into early adulthood, but I think it's worth mentioning. I had taken a job in Canmore, Alberta, as a housekeeper. It was my first real job, my first time living away from home. And just my luck, I was stuck in staff accomodation with a bunch of pot-smoking partiers. It was the middle of the night; I had to be at work early that morning, and my roommates had invited the entire damn population of the staff accomodation to a party.
I was frustrated. I was lonely. I was scared. I wanted out of here, I wanted to go home and never leave again. Even now, tears come to my eyes as I remember it. I was sitting on the windowsill, staring out at the night sky. And as I tried to muster the words for a prayer, something entirely different came out.
"That's it. I'm done."
I was raised in a family that was very indifferent towards religion. My brother and I went to Sunday School, and I went on quite a few summer Bible camps, but that was about it. Once in a while, my parents would go to church instead of just dropping my brother and I off, but that was hardly the norm. There was never any discussion about what we had learned, either. What happened at church, stayed at church; that seemed to be the general attitude. I don't even really know why my parents insisted that we go, given their obvious lack of enthusiasm for it. I suppose they were pressured into thinking it was the right thing to do. Thinking back on it, I can't remember even seeing a Bible in our house, save for the copy of the New Testament that I had gotten as a gift from someone.
For the most part, I enjoyed Sunday School. I loved Bible camps. I was as creative a person back then as I am now, and I loved to hear the stories. I loved to dress up in costume and act in church plays. I loved to read and to draw. In a way, Sunday School was a place where I really got to get in touch with myself; such things were generally discouraged at home. My parents tended to see any creative pursuits as a waste of time, or worse, a way to get out of doing chores.
As for the actual religious part...well, it was all I really knew. I come from a small town where other religious beliefs just don't exist. Or if they do, they're pretty good at keeping quiet about it. That might have changed since I left town, I don't know. You were either a Christian or...well, nobody cared beyond that. And really, as a young girl, I didn't need to know anything else. God loved me, was the message they hammered home every Sunday. No matter what, God loved me. Do you have any idea what that can do to a kid whose parents only pay attention to her when she's done something wrong? I ate that stuff up like you wouldn't believe.
It didn't last. I don't know if it could have. I can't remember when, exactly, that I began my downward spiral. I have scattered memories. Bits and pieces, here and there. The strongest memory is approaching my mother and telling her that I wanted to drop out of the Girl Guides because they kept talking about that God stuff. I became too old to go to Sunday School anymore, and regular church bored me to tears. Without all the stories and plays and activities to keep my attention, I had to find faith in God on my own. And it just wasn't there. But that didn't mean I was about to give up. I joined at least two more Bible studies, but I was so slow to accept what they were teaching that I kept being held back. Needs more study, they said. I'm sure rumors went around that I was stupid, that I was a special needs kid or something. It wasn't for a lack of trying, it just didn't bloody make any sense anymore!
As my struggles in faith continued, the struggles in life increased. Life started to fall apart around me. Beloved family pets died. My grandfather died. My parents separated. I entered high school. Bullying, teasing, ridicule. No one to talk to, no one to help. I can't even begin to express the number of tearful pleas to God I made. Just listen to me, help me, please do something, anything, I can't take this anymore! I felt as if I was dying inside.
The one thing I do remember vividly is the exact moment I gave up. This requires fast-forwarding into early adulthood, but I think it's worth mentioning. I had taken a job in Canmore, Alberta, as a housekeeper. It was my first real job, my first time living away from home. And just my luck, I was stuck in staff accomodation with a bunch of pot-smoking partiers. It was the middle of the night; I had to be at work early that morning, and my roommates had invited the entire damn population of the staff accomodation to a party.
I was frustrated. I was lonely. I was scared. I wanted out of here, I wanted to go home and never leave again. Even now, tears come to my eyes as I remember it. I was sitting on the windowsill, staring out at the night sky. And as I tried to muster the words for a prayer, something entirely different came out.
"That's it. I'm done."
