Finding God

I’ve never considered myself to be a very religious person.

I’ve never been an avid church-goer. I was always a “Chreaster,” as one of my friends put it — Christmas and Easter, that’s about it. Part of the problem was that I was never in the same place two weekends in a row. My mom and grandmother had at some point joined the Episcopal church, and for a while they went just about every week — but every other weekend, I was with my dad. My dad, to the extent of my knowledge, is a Baptist.

“No problem,” you could say. “You just go to one church one weekend, another one the next weekend, no big deal. At some point down the road, you’ll just have to decide which doctrine you prefer.”

My dad never had as strong a church-going habit as Mom and Grandmother did. For a while, when I was about ten, he did, but he would try a different church every weekend. That was just after he moved to Pine Bluff, when he was trying to find a congregation he liked, I guess. And then we just sort of stopped going.

Mom, Grandmother, and I, when we would go to the Episcopal church, always went to Saint Mark’s. There, then, was some consistency. But I was so young that Sunday school was more of a daycare than an education about the Bible. Just before we stopped going, I was just old enough to be getting to the basic Bible story bit of Sunday school — Adam and Eve, David and Goliath, Daniel in the Lions’ Den — all of that. Not that I remember any of it now.

When I was ten, I started going to Camp Ozark, a non-denominational Christian summer camp in Mount Ida, Arkansas. I loved it; I went every summer for eight years. (I only stopped this year because I’m too old to be a camper, and I just don’t have the time this summer to be an LIT.) Every summer, I left camp with a different sort of feeling.

The year I turned thirteen, I left camp with a definite sense of spiritual well-being. That was the year we moved to Florida, the year I left behind everyone and everything I had ever known. That was the year that I needed something constant. I needed something I knew I could rely on — and that summer, I had God. But I had God in the sense that I could blame Him. I remember asking Him why He had done this to me, why He had taken me away from everything I had ever known. It wasn’t until later that I realized I was meant to be here, that God sent my mom and me to Florida for a reason. I can safely say that I have become a stronger person because of it, but I can also say that I’m done, I’m ready to leave. I feel truly blessed to have been given this opportunity to live in such a diverse environment. And I feel like it came at the right time. We lived in Florida during what I think are the most crucial years in finding who you are. I was thirteen my first year here; now, I’m eighteen, and I’ll be back in the Deep South before my nineteenth birthday. I’m sure that if we had stayed in Arkansas, I would not be the same person I am today.

The same year we moved to Florida, that first year the idea of God really meant something to me, I was also introduced to other aspects of spirituality — namely, the Tarot. My mom gave me my first Tarot deck; I’ve held it as a constant in my life ever since. Whenever I’m looking for answers, I turn first to my cards. While I was still struggling to understand “God,” the Tarot was something tangible, something real, something I could understand. It was my rock.

My enthusiasm for the Christian God waned through the year. After another summer at camp, I went home spiritually refreshed; I was on top of a mountain, and God was beside me. But again, after a few months, my religious zeal again faded.

Another year came and went. I found myself beginning to question what I was being told. How did we know there was only one God? “The evidence of His existence is all around us,” Sam said. Yes, I could agree that some higher power had created the world around us, that the odds of some serendipitous coincidence resulting in the Big Bang were simply too astronomical for science to explain away a higher Being. But my question was never answered — how do we know there is only one God?

I don’t know that there is an answer to this question — I guess that maybe, that’s where the “faith” part of religion comes in. You just have to believe.

A few more years passed by, and my spirituality waxed and waned. This last summer at camp, though, I didn’t leave with that spiritual high. I didn’t leave with that feeling of spiritual well-being. I left feeling like I had more questions than when I had started. So many people had so many interpretations of so many different things, I didn’t know whom to turn to or whom to believe. All I knew was that I felt, in a word, lost.

My mom understood my feeling of emptiness in that area — she had told me multiple times that she felt like she had neglected a part of my upbringing. For my eighteenth birthday, she gave me a cross to wear, in hopes that it might help me find my way.

I can’t say if I’ve really “found God,” but I can say that I know someone or something is up there watching out for me. I’ve been able to overcome any obstacle thrown at me and emerge a stronger person.

Advertisement