The God I've gotten to know

How he went from being an intimidating boss to an almighty bestie

Welcome to Part 2 of Brit’s faith being cracked wide open.

A few newsletters ago, I talked about how bad book reviews from Christian homeschooling moms actually sparked some really great things.

As I asked for others’ input on the criticism I received, it not only created incredible conversations and deeper connection with loads of people in my life, but it even strengthened my beliefs and gave this “quiet Christian” some guts to speak up.

You see, there was an overarching theme in those convos that ultimately lit a fire in me. After hearing too many people say things like, “This is why I left the church,” “This is why I stopped going to Bible study,” and “This is why I bristle at the word God,” I had to talk about the God I now know.

I had to talk about the God who knows I’m imperfect, yet loves me and sees me through it all. No matter what.

But after telling you the “who,” I must tell you the “how,” because:

1. I want to share a few things that changed everything for me, because I know what it’s like to feel pushed away from the Lord. I know what it’s like to be confused and turned off by all this stuff. But I also know what it’s like to have an undeniable pull / thirst / curiosity for it all.

2. I want to share a deeper piece of where I come from and who I am. While I’m always a little hesitant to mention God in my posts, I can’t properly write about waiting, courage, and creating without weaving him into it.

3. I also want to clear the air on who I’m talking about, because here’s the thing: God gets a bad rap these days, and those who are loudest about him seem to do a great job of pushing us away from him.

So, with sweaty palms and eager fingers, it’s time to tell ya about this great guy I’ve gotten to know:

For most of my life, God felt like The Wizard of Oz or an intimidating CEO. He was a distant, judge-y, unapproachable authority figure.

He wasn’t someone I could talk to or lean on at a moment’s notice. He was far, far away, up in the clouds, behind a big ‘ol curtain, blocked by every balloon that had ever gotten loose.

When I first started Catholic school at the age of 6, I was actually amazed by the concept of God. He was warm, welcoming, and seemingly listening to all my pre-slumber SALT prayers.

Psst! Do you know this format? I still sometimes follow it:

Sorry: Apologize for something.
Ask: Request something.
Love: Tell him who/what you love.
Thank: Show him your gratitude.

Then, in second grade, things started to change. While most of the kids in my class were receiving Communion for the first time, I wasn’t partaking. For one, I hadn’t been baptized yet, which in and of itself made me realize I could do things differently, and two, I never understood why I had to take so many classes and complete all these workbooks. It felt like too much.

I felt ready, but not at all.
I felt too young, but not at all.
I felt like I knew God, but not at all.

In all this confusion, though, I felt a connection. I felt a desire to worship.

So, some days, I’d come home from school and pour red Gatorade into an amber glass tumbler and place it in the middle of the living room coffee table. This drinking glass was straight out of the 70s. It was my favorite. It had Georgian honeycomb imprints and looked like it was stolen from a Vikings disco party.

Then, I’d grab a cracker from the pantry and head into “church” with my purple tape recorder in tow. Dancing around the room to “Walk Like an Egyptian,” I’d anticipate my own receiving of Jesus.

Dancing...at home...alone is where I felt connected to this mightily mysterious God.

It felt joyful, free, and personal.

It was the opposite of the services our school would attend on Fridays.

I’ll never forget the day when one of the priests told the entire church that if we didn’t start singing, he would have a hearse come get us, because we all looked like we were dead. He was NOT trying to be funny. He was never trying to be funny. I’m not sure I ever saw him smile.

What I am sure of is how nauseated I would feel from kneeling or standing for so long. If I ever leaned back on the bench or sat down, it wouldn’t be long before a teacher would motion me back into unison with all the other uncomfy kids.

I never understood Confession, either. The whole “come on in and hide while you confess your sins to someone other than God himself” thing is how I got the vibe of the Lord being distant. For me, it invoked shame. For me, it painted a picture that he was inaccessible.

I was always a bit jealous of people who so freely and confidently moved through the steps of this religion, because deep down, I felt so pulled to the divine life. I wanted to be part of it. I wanted to know God.

And let me be very clear:

I am NOT saying Catholicism has it all wrong and that Christianity has it all right or that I’ve never met a Catholic who wasn’t on fire for Christ.

I just personally couldn’t get down with many of the spiritual avenues presented to me in my upbringing.

I personally yearned for the softness, kindness, and openness that surrounded my first impression of him.

In all of my nine and a half years of Catholic schooling, though, there was one priest who gave me a taste of what I was wishing for.

Not only did Father Fox look like Jesus with a fresh haircut, but he was beaming with that open-arms, everyone’s-welcome energy I longed for. He actually smiled. He always greeted us. And when I decided to get baptized at age 8, I made sure he was the one to do it.

As the years went on, however, I didn’t make it any further on the “Catholic checklist.”

While almost everyone was getting confirmed in eighth grade, I decided yet again to bow out. At that point, I didn’t feel like I needed to confirm anything with God, and well, those incomplete Communion classes were still in the way.

You know what wasn’t in my way?

My parents. They always supported my spiritual decisions, and in hindsight, I’m really, really grateful for that. While it’s been a confusing journey, it’s been a genuine one. I wouldn’t take back one second of “wrestling” with my faith.

I wish I could tell you a memory from the services at my Catholic high school, but aside from them being on Wednesdays and that I was required to wear tights, they’re all a blur.

After I switched to public high school, my proximity to God weakened and continued to weaken. Of course, that curious thirst would show up when I was alone in nature, driving long distances, having a tough time, or occasionally attending church with a friend (where I would often cry for reasons I couldn’t explain).

It wasn’t until my mid-20s that I got a taste of a Christian church service with my now-husband.

I loved how personable it felt and how good the music was. When it came time for Communion, they set out trays with broken crackers and small cups of juice and invited everyone to come grab their own.

I told David I hadn’t received it yet and that he could go without me. What happened next blew my mind:

“You can go up there if you want to,” he said. “You can take Communion.”

“I never completed the classes in Catholic school,” I whispered. “I’ve never taken it. Are you sure??”

“Yes. If you believe in God, you can take Communion.”

I went up there.
I received it.

And I cried.
And cried.
And…cried.

That was the beginning of a whole new walk with God.

Then, after about three years of church hopping and two years of watching Flatirons Church sermons while living abroad, we found an in-person church in Littleton that felt like home.

David grew up in this church, but there was new leadership that was definitely more our style. And the messages in those Sunday sermons were incredibly helpful in a season of waiting, adjusting, and wondering.

About a year later, thanks to a little thing called infertility, I found myself in a really dark place. While searching for a therapist, I also reached out to our church. Since I didn’t know anyone on staff yet, I just blindly sent a note to the main contact email, asking if they had an infertility grief group or something like this.

A few days later, I received a kind and resourceful email from a woman named Wendy. In the middle of her suggestions, she wrote the following:

“We don’t have a group like that specifically, but I’d love to talk with you and pray with you about your journey and what it has been like for you. Would you like to meet for coffee sometime?”

Although I was hesitant to agree to such a vulnerable coffee date (Hi, nice to meet you, let’s talk about my infertility and depression, and oh, yes, let’s pray in this public place!), I was incredibly moved by her invitation and willingness to sit with me.

So, I took her up on it.

As we sat down near the fireplace of a shopping mall food court, I wasn’t sure how much I’d be willing to share. But within minutes, I felt like I had known Wendy forever. Not only did I feel comfortable enough to share exactly where I was and how I got there, but I so appreciated how she shared her own struggles as well.

Then, she asked me, “Are you angry with God?”

“I don’t know if I’m angry with him,” I said, “But I’ve definitely been sad about a lot of things. Because of that, I’ve felt disconnected from him. So, yeah, maybe there is some anger. Maybe even some resentment.”

When I’d pray to the Lord, I’d write to him in my journal, but it always felt like I was emailing that big-time executive or even chatting with a supervisor. I never felt like I could be the REAL me.

I’d kindly thank him for what he was doing, ask for help on something, and almost always apologize for the delay in reaching out, but never did I ever think to pick a fight with the guy.

Never did I think it was okay to tell him I was mad at him. That wasn’t my place!

But as Wendy told me that repressed anger will only lead to deeper depression, she encouraged me to be fully open in my prayers.

“In the past, when I’ve been angry with God, I’ve journaled all of my honest thoughts to him — even the dark and ugly ones — and I’ve found that to be very healing,” she said. “Because here’s the thing: God can take it. He won’t be mad at you. He won’t leave you. He is always there for you.”

Little did I know that this tiny bit of advice would change my perspective on God forever.

As soon as I started being honest with God and letting my full, raw heart spill onto the page, my walls began to fall, and for the first time in my entire life, an actual friendship began to form.

Then, the more I began to learn about the gospel and how his spirit is alive in me, my heart began to transform.

God was no longer this mysterious breeze that would come and go. He was the breath in my lungs. He was my partner in crime. (Christlike crime, of course!)

The best part? He’d been there all along.

Through all of the pain, change, and uncertainty, God was unchanging and always there. In all those times that I sought comfort, clarity, and stability in places that couldn’t sustain me, God was the one and only constant. I just didn’t know it.

But now, I know.
And this has saved me.
It’s been the ultimate AHA for me.

Now, I’ve inevitably continued to stumble, sin, and struggle through the darkness (and always will).

BUT.

Ever since this turning point in my faith, there’s been a remarkable ripple effect in my mindset, decisions, and ability to notice things.

As true joy has trickled its way into my life, I’ve witnessed miracles of all sizes.

These unexpected gifts have reminded me to keep hanging on. They’ve sustained me in ways that nothing else can. They’ve reminded me of what truly matters.

Most of all, they’ve deepened my capacity to trust in the Bigger Plan. And that, my friend, is what Moon Pollen is ultimately all about.

From now on, when I mention God, I hope you know a little bit more about why I’m weaving him in and what kind of role he plays in my life. If he’s historically made you bristle, I hope you’ve seen a new side of this dear friend of mine. And if you’re still bristling, I totally get it.

I hope you’ll still stick around on this journey with me, regardless. I hope you’ll continue to recount some miracles and deep, deep thoughts with me.

Thank you SO much for letting me share my heart.

Until next time (Hopefully?! Yeah?!),