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| Image credit: Photo by Sarah and Mike ...probably on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons |
Before my first child was born, I swore to friends and family members that I wasn't going to be one of those people. You know the kind. The ones who would pull out pictures of their newborn and expect me to fawn over it, when I (the non-parent) saw nothing more than a bald, generic infant — nothing particularly cute or interesting — just a bland, tiny thing like every other infant in every other picture from time immemorial. (I used to wish they had pulled out pictures of their dog or cat's new litter instead. Now those things are cute!) But of course, my children worked their magic on me. My son arrived — purple faced, squalling and covered in muck — and I was smitten. He was the most beautiful, miraculous thing I had ever seen. And ashamed as I was to have deserted my old beliefs, I'd shove his image (at the very least provocation) into the face of every living being I could find, knowing that people like I used to be were rolling their eyes.
When I started in recovery, I said the same thing. I'm not going to be one of those people. You know the kind. The ones that are all blah blah blah about God and spirituality all the time. After all, the vengeful God of my childhood didn't have any place in my life. And even when people were talking about a different kind of God, one that clearly enhanced their lives, well, it seemed (I admit it) so irrational, so silly, so... cheesy. I rolled my eyes at people talking about God the same way I used to when people would take out their baby pictures. God, like a newborn baby, wasn't particularly interesting or attractive until I had one myself.
Now, when people ask how I have gotten through the hard times, the answer that comes to my mind is "by developing a spirituality and a connection with the God of my understanding." Yet I'm still acutely aware of how nonsensical and unhelpful that sounds to anyone who is where I was. I can see newcomers in meetings thinking, "Oh, no. Here's some crazy lady talking about God, like that's helps with my whole my-husband-is-a-sex-addict thing." I can see them put off in the same way I was put off. And I find I'm one of those people again. I'm the person I used to roll my eyes at. I'm the delighted mom, with a wallet full of pictures of God: my God, which is beautiful and life-changing to me, but looks just like every other bland, generic, troublesome higher power to everyone else.
This post was originally published at The Second Road.
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