Excerpt from:
Memoir of a Misfit: Finding My Place in the Family of God
Chapter 1
People who claim to have no regrets are either deluded or full of it. At least that’s what I’ve come to believe. I’m a virtual repository of regret. I have enough to fill several lifetimes, so I figure all those regret-free types must have dumped all theirs on me and promptly forgotten about them. But I’m guessing one particular regret in my life is mine and mine alone: that my brief encounters with organized crime were so brief and uneventful.
I’ve never witnessed as much as a minor mob hit, even though I spent two decades of my life in the mob-infested environs of the Jersey Shore. That’s ample time to witness a gangland-style killing or two, or at least a backroom exchange of freshly laundered funds. You couldn’t go far, especially if you ate out very often, without encountering some mob-connected politico from Edison or Jersey City or Newark who sheltered his questionable gains in a “failing” Irish or Italian eatery somewhere near Asbury Park. I suspect I worked for at least one of those guys, though my boss, as it were, kept such a squeaky-clean operation that the bad guys would confidently stride in with no fear of ambush.
So I ate in the mobster’s restaurants, drank in their watering holes, dated their employees, and what did I get for it? Nothing. Not once, not even one little time did I get to see anything big happen. Over the years, I’d rack my brains, searching for a nugget of information I could pass on to the feds. I didn’t witness a single episode that would position me in the hot seat in court. I’m not saying I should have had a front-row seat at a Gotti or Gambino family outing, so to speak. That would have attracted way too much media attention. A small-time elimination would have been fine with me. Anything to draw a quiet contingent of U.S. marshals ever so discreetly to my doorstep, making me an offer I couldn’t refuse: Agree to testify, and we’ll place you in the federal witness protection program.
For that one shot at a new life, a new identity, a new history, I’d have spilled the beans in a Manhattan minute. I used to fantasize about the covert thrill of relocating to some deliciously vanilla-sounding place like Dubuque or Des Moines or Duluth, where I could teach English or journalism or write under an assumed name. I would have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to become Victoria Wordsworth or Angelica Whitman, since Christina Rossetti, my all-time favorite name, was already taken. The feds, though, would probably christen me Jane Smith or Mary Brown, but they wouldn’t hear a word of complaint from me. And I’d work like the devil to fit in to the community, since that would be the point, wouldn’t it? I would have to forgo all of my wacky opinions and force myself to look and think and act like a regular person. I mean, my life would depend on it, and even worse, the feds would be looking over my shoulder, at least for a while. It would be my personal experiment in normalcy by coercion.
I’ve lusted for such a life at various times over the years. I believed that if push came to shove, I could parlay all the social survival skills I’ve learned into one grand and glorious stab at living like a normal person. So it’s a fantasy, I admit, and a complicated one at that. But I wonder if it wouldn’t be simpler than trying to make it as a square peg in a round world. Because life as a misfit is far from uncomplicated.
It was only at an altar or two that I was finally able to establish a new identity. Maybe that’s why I got married the first time. I was tired of being Marcia Edwards and everything that name represented—my family’s weirdness, my own wildness—so I made a bad choice but got a new name at a time when many of my feminist friends were keeping their family names. But feminism never offered anything remotely as appealing to me as a new identity did. If my second marriage hadn’t been so fulfilling, I might have kept on going until I got so far from my birth name that I wouldn’t remember it anymore.
Meanwhile, my spiritual identity got even more complicated than my marital status. By the 1990s, I was in my forties and had been Marcia Ford, Christian, for some time. Born-again Christian no less. It had all seemed so simple at one time, but by 1995 or so—well, it was pretty much a mess. I had returned to my one-time life maxim: Question everything. It didn’t help that I was immersed in a faith environment that emphasized joy, joy, and more joy, to the exclusion of other activities like reflection and contemplation. My religious diet consisted of the same spiritual food day in and day out, and I learned soon enough that while spicy salsa may make your taste buds dance in the Spirit, after a while your body starts craving oatmeal. And God, well, He seemed to favor those who jumped the highest and shouted the loudest and swayed the longest. I knew I was not among the favored ones. I don’t know, maybe I still had too much Baptist blood running through my charismatic veins. In any event, I started grilling God, questioning Him about what I had done to make Him dislike me so much and why He kept taunting me with biblical promises that were clearly never meant for me. It was time to duke it out.
****
It’s a Saturday morning in the spring of 1996, and I’m in my room at the Radisson Hotel in Orlando, the drapes drawn tight to keep the blinding Florida sunshine at bay. Dark is where I am, where I—almost—want to be. I crouch on the floor in a corner, my back against the wall in more ways than one. If I can say I feel anything, I feel spent, but mostly I don’t feel much. If you could hook up my emotions to a hospital monitor, you’d see a flat line across the screen, stretching off into infinity.
After a fitful night, I’ve decided to walk out on the love of my life, the one who has been my companion for twenty-four years. As with all relationships, this one has seen its share of highs and lows. But lately, the lows have become unbearable, intolerable, unrelenting. Our encounter last night killed any remaining shred of desire I might have had to try to please him. It was over.
This love, the one to whom I had committed my life, my heart, my everything, was not my husband, however. John was thirty miles away, dutifully caring for our two daughters so I could be here on the floor. No, this was not my husband; this was—or is—my God. He is still God, I think as I sit on the Radisson carpet. He’s just not mine anymore.
He belongs to the other people milling about this hotel, the place where thousands of women have assembled, all seemingly in pursuit of God. Well, maybe some used this conference as an excuse to visit Orlando for a couple of days. A few are probably conference junkies who figure they can pay someone else to hear God so they won’t have to go to the trouble of learning to hear His voice for themselves. But let’s assume most have come with pure motives, believing that where two or three thousand are gathered in His name, He’ll show up with a corresponding measure of power. If you need recharging, this would be the place to get it.
Me, I’m here because I work for the company hosting the event. I have a bit part in the proceedings, something of an onstage infomercial for a Christian publication. That’s it. I’m here for three days to do my three-minute bit. No one has suggested I do more. No one thinks I’m spiritual enough, I’m guessing. And no one has a clue that because of all this, maybe because I’m too spiritually expectant for my own good, God and I are about to go our separate ways.
****
The night before my dramatic departure from God, I had been offered a morsel of hope. The speaker that night was T.D. Jakes. You may know him by name only, and you may wonder why he’s such a big deal. Well, this guy had me doubled over with the gut-wrenching weight of the truth he preached. He is an astonishing presence on stage, on this night a man who has somehow emptied himself of everything that makes him male and replaced it with everything that makes a woman fe
male. It is a stunning achievement. He seems to understand women—their fears, their insecurities, their frustrations—as well as any woman understand herself. This night, he takes the form of an Israelite mother clutching the hands of her children, cowering under the wall of water that rises on each side of her as she leads her babies through the Red Sea, trusting that the hand of God will hold the deluge back until they’re safely across. He knows—he knows—that every last woman in the auditorium needs to believe that the hand of God is holding back an unseen torrent that threatens to overwhelm her. I stand speechless, numbed by the presence of God, long after he has left the stage. Eventually I come to and find myself standing next to a co-worker and friend I’ll call a nice safe name like Susan. We collapse into each other’s arms.
Susan and I had an emotional connection as well as a spiritual one at that time. We had helped each other navigate our way through the depths of despair over the previous year. This night, as we stand in awe of God, several co-workers join us. They’ve just decided they want to go out somewhere to eat—with Susan. Susan dries her eyes and heads off with them, too dazed by Jakes to realize that I am clearly not invited on their little post-revival jaunt. This clutch of women walks off as one, leaving me alone in the cavernous hall. Well, not quite alone. The stage crew is breaking down the equipment, and the maintenance crew is folding up the metal chairs. I am in their way.
Bewildered by what just happened, I make my way to the shuttle buses lined up outside the convention center, their engines humming as they wait to take the last few busloads back to the hotel. Fighting back the tears, I sink into a window seat, wondering how I could let such a minor incident demolish such an intense spiritual experience. A woman sits next to me, a stranger but friendly looking. She glances at me. I turn to smile at her. She gets up and moves to another seat. Now I’m taking this personally. I do not have bad breath; Certs insures that. I do not have body odor; Lady Speed Stick guarantees that. I take this as yet another sign that God thinks I am not worth His time or anybody else’s.
We drive the two or three miles to the hotel. I get off the shuttle bus and head toward the hotel lobby, veering off at the last minute to take refuge in my car, sitting idly in the parking lot. I’m not planning to go anywhere, although my memory flashes up the name of an isolated road just to the west. For at least the second time in my life, I’m considering the unthinkable. I sit in my car, crying and screaming and asking God why He doesn’t just let me die. I’m not doing Him any favors by hanging around; it’s not as if He’s called on me to do anything significant lately. If all He thinks I’m good for is a three-minute infomercial, well, there are plenty of favored ones who can handle that along with the speaking and teaching and counseling He lets them do. He hasn’t had much to do with me for so long that I’m not even sure He wants to hear my voice any more. I could speed down that isolated road and not hurt anyone but myself. Only I’d probably end up maiming myself and create an unthinkable burden on my family. I remember my family and realize God’s got me locked in to living. I can’t leave them, though I sure wish I could leave me.
So the next morning, I sit there on the floor and think this God thing through logically. I figure we made a deal way back when I was born again: I give my heart to Him; He gives me a whole lot of good stuff, like peace and purpose and power. But lately I haven’t seen much evidence of all that good stuff that was supposedly coming my way, so I’ve whittled my hopes down to just one thing—heaven. But if He has promised me heaven but won’t let me die, that can only mean one thing: God Himself cannot stomach the thought of spending eternity with me, so He’s delaying my arrival at the pearly gates as long as He can.
I figure the ball’s in my court now. I play Let’s Make a Deal with the Almighty. I tell Him I won’t bother Him anymore. I’ll live a good little Christian life—Lord knows I wouldn’t want to do anything to taint His name—but that’s it. No more longing for a deeper, more intimate relationship with Him, no more hoping that He’ll single me out for personal attention. I may be washed in the blood, but I feel more like a lost soul in the unwashed mass of humanity.
So I tell basically tell Him, You go Your way and I’ll go mine. Have a great life—or whatever it is that You have—and I’ll see You in heaven.
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