Is It God or A Mass Murderer?

The next Forensic Files episode was about to go down, I could feel it. I thought the one-bedroom apartment I shared with my three-year-old daughter had been inhabited by a serial killer.

Only two months prior I had been an almighty drunk. Picture one of those creepy, dark staircases at the back of a nice house that for some unexplained reason you keep walking down. And down. That was me. The 44 oz cherry lime drink sitting on my desk at work was half-filled with vodka and I was napping under my boss’s desk when she traveled. How lovely. On my best days it was maintenance closet drinking. On my worst days it was passing out reading bedtime stories.

Sober Suggestions

Sobriety showed up when I hit the floor of that dark staircase. Right away, I loved recovery. I’d go to these meetings and people would actually make eye contact with me instead of avoiding it. They talked about doing the same stupid things I did before they got sober and what they do now in recovery. But they also talked an awful lot about God. This Higher Power thing was everywhere. No problem, I thought. I know it all.

I was instructed by my sponsor two weeks before the apartment haunting to pray for God’s will. And then to listen for it. Sounded simple enough for a normal person. But then there was me, barreling through life, still pushing an adult size bright yellow Tonka bulldozer over everyone and everything. I took her instruction one morning in rush hour traffic. We were late, and Shelby sat in her car seat gleefully munching on croutons because I had convinced myself they were equal to toast. My blood pressure was boiling, so I started whispering.

“God I’m losing it. Thy will be done. Not mine. Whatever that means, I just hope you’re listening. I’m thinking I should quit my job today and move to the country. Or become a truck driver and Shelby and I can live in our rig and explore the country. Because this is bullshit! Thy will not mine. Ok.”

Then I waited about 15 seconds. And decided either He was busy with someone else or He just didn’t care.

Power Struggles with God

One trap of sobriety is we can forget a lot of things. My mind can clear up from the remorse and shame I felt one week prior for waking my little girl up out of a sweet sleep to take her to the gas station at 10:00 pm because I ran out of wine and my cravings are more important than drunk driving with the best thing I’ve ever done strapped in the back seat. That’s why I need God. At some point, I’m going to be standing there again, face to face with a disease that wants me dead. And alone, I’m screwed. I’ll never win.

I didn’t want to go back to that. I thought since I quit drinking, my life was supposed to be better, to get easier. None of that was exactly happening. I’d talk to God, explaining to Him my predicament, and then offer up my own suggestions of what might work better. I tried manipulating God! Bartering with Him, handing over problems only to take them back because He wasn’t doing it right. I wanted desperately to turn my life over to Him, really, I did. If He did it my way.

Hiding Spots

That night I stood in my dark and silent apartment. Whatever was going on, it was all too much for me. The weight of life, and sobriety, and motherhood, combined with the emotional turmoil of past wreckage and failures, sent me rummaging through my kitchen for anything to change the way I felt.

I found it, my “in case of emergency break glass” pill I had stuffed away in a cabinet. On my knees on top of the counter, I reached in to the very back of that top shelf and grabbed it. But as I was pulling it out and climbing down, that sucker popped out of my grip. I watched it fly out and roll under the refrigerator. Unbelievable. I grabbed my broom and sprawled out on my stomach, eye level to the nastiness living under my fridge. I didn’t see it. A couple of swipes with the broom handle fixed nothing. No pill, and I was pissed.

I just laid there, staring at my last hope of relief get sucked into the underbelly of dust bunnies and lost Cheerios. I was tired, in every sense of the word. As I was just about to get up, something caught my eye. It was stuck to a black pipe, some bright white rectangle with writing. I slid my hand in and pulled it out, still laying there to read it. It was one word printed on a magnet that scared the breath out of me. I jumped up with my heart pounding and froze. Opening my hand, I looked again. The word was “Will.” I hadn’t imagined it. Some feeling shot through me that inexplicably caused me to call out, “Hello?” Someone was in that apartment and I knew it. No one answered. I grabbed the broom and held it close while my eyes darted around for hidden cameras that my psycho killer was using to spy on me. Or was it a ghost, some freaky spirit of a previous tenant?

He’s Got Me

I don’t know how long I stood there, but long enough for the adrenaline to cool off a bit. It took time to decipher if this was a God thing, or if a mass murderer was out to get me. Then out of nowhere the most beautiful cry came out of me. It was relief, like when you think you’ve lost your kid but then you see their smiling face come running for you.

I kept thinking God was going to show up with a fat leather bible in His hand and shaking His head with that look on his face. You know the one. He’d be mad at me and give me that look of disappointment and disapproval. When I’d listen to others talk about their God, it sounded stiff to me. Rehearsed. And I think God knew that. Of course He did.

I’m stubborn. I want to do things my way. I’m terrified of failure and rejection, and I complicate things with insane thinking. God knows all of this, which is why He met me in the stillness with a simple message. His Will for me is a good thing, a safe surrender, and an answer to the life I was longing for. Once I saw that, literally faced that fear, it didn’t scare me one bit.