Angry Conversations with God (30 page)

Why had they done it? For the goodie bag? For the glory? No. For the worse, the poorer, in sickness until death. For the
love.
Even my distorted God said it early on in counseling. He didn’t love me because I was good. (And I wasn’t.) He loved me because
he is Love.

I saw now all too clearly why I had married God: for the power and the glory. For the money. I was a spiritual gold digger.
It is a chilling moment when your soul is laid bare in front of God: the real God who is wiser and fairer, more loving, and,
yes, holier than thou. He owed me no apology. I thought of Job’s words: “I spoke of things I did not understand.…I despise
myself and repent in dust and ashes” (Job 42:3, 6).

Rudy: It’s a horrifying gift to see yourself as you really are.

Susan: I got the horrifying part. What’s the gift?

Rudy: You know how much God loves you. Not because you’re good, but because you’re his. And now you know what you need to
change.

Susan: I’ve got a lot of things to change, all right. Like, I’ve got to stop blaming the church. Take my pastor, for instance:
he’s brilliant, sincere, and messed up. But he’s just a guy. Maybe that’s what church really is: just a bunch of guys, trying
to figure it out together.

Rudy: You’ll be a lot happier if you approach your whole life that way. What else?

Susan: This is harder. I have to accept that God isn’t going to give me the life I want: I may never get married, and I’ll
never make a living doing what I love.

Rudy: That’s a big loss. I’m sorry.

Susan: Yeah. I really love acting and writing.

Rudy: Just because you can’t make a living at it doesn’t mean you can’t do it. You just have to free your desire from commercial
expectations. Just do it for fun and for free.

Susan: What does that mean, exactly?

Rudy: Do it just because you love it. Because you can’t
not
do it. And this is where your desires can be part of God’s will. God does want us to play our note, as you’ve said. But there’s
a difference between playing your note because you’re participating in God’s beauty, and doing it for money and fame.

Susan: Why do my friends get to do it for money and fame?

Rudy: Maybe they’ve already learned that lesson. Or they haven’t yet. Trust me, if God loves them, they will. No one escapes
the horrifying gift of truth. What else?

Susan: Here’s the hardest thing. I have to accept God as he is. Even if he never blesses me or gives me adventure, purpose,
or meaning. I’m going to have to let go of the ornery, sarcastic God and the wimpy Jesus.

Rudy: Well, I think you can allow God to be sarcastic. It is a viable form of communication.

Susan: At least he and I will have something in common.

Some time later I found myself stuck in traffic, inching along behind some bozo doing fifteen miles an hour. Just when I had
a chance to pass him, the light turned red. I whipped my car into the lane next to him and waited at the light. The driver
was a tiny old man wearing a black beret. His head barely reached over the dash, and his eyes were full of surprise, as if
he was still in awe over the miracle of automobiles. He caught me staring and waved exultantly. I couldn’t help it—I burst
out laughing. The light turned green and he sputtered away. Life seemed to go on, finding its own surprises and laughter,
whether I wanted to join or not.

That night I prayed. “I am sorry I married you for your money. (But I hate this. Why can’t you bless me?! Hey, I’m just being
honest.) I’m sorry I took you for granted. I’m ashamed that I still want the
stuff.
Please forgive me. No, I want more than your forgiveness. (Aw, crap, here it goes!) Please help me change my heart so I stop
caring about the
stuff.
I want to be eighty-five and driving a red convertible and still amazed at the breath in my lungs.”

Not long after that prayer, I was wrenched from a deep, dreamless sleep by a horrifying sound coming from outside my window.
It was deafening, like a wall of noise that played every note in the audio spectrum at once. It was a voice. It said one word.
I heard the word. It was my name.

“SUSAN.”

It was the most terrifying moment of my life. And it was over too soon.

Something changed inside me: broke wide open, all spilled out

Till I had no doubt that something changed.

Never would have believed it till I felt it in my own heart:

In the deepest part the healing came.

And I cannot make it

And I cannot fake it

And I can’t afford it

But it’s mine.

—“Something Changed,”
BY
S
ARA
G
ROVES

I WAS CERTAIN THE VOICE I HAD HEARD WAS GOD’S. I HAD NOT
been dreaming. I was sound asleep, and then I was awake—and I heard it. I thought of the Bible verse that says the voice
of the Lord is “like the sound of many waters” (Ezek. 43:2
NKJV
). That’s precisely how it had sounded. But what did it mean? Or rather, what did it mean for me? I felt an odd calm. One
can speak a thousand words and say nothing. And yet with one word God said everything: He knew who I was. He knew where I
was. He knew my name. And somehow, that was enough for now. I was going to be okay.

Rudy was excited.

Rudy: Does that mean God might be coming back to counseling?

Susan: I don’t want to rush him, or me. I have to count the cost.

Rudy: Are you afraid to find out what God is
really
like?

Susan: Uh-oh. You mean he might really be evil or something?

Rudy: No. He might really be good.

What a devastating thought. If God really was good, then I had to let go of every expectation and every grudge. I could no
longer defy him or manipulate him. I might even have to let him love me.

Rudy: That’s a big step. Don’t take it until you’re ready.

Have you ever noticed that when you decide to do something important, you’re met with a psychic insurgence? Like you decide
to lose ten pounds, and suddenly you see chocolate everywhere? There are steps you can take to minimize the sabotage. Never
read
Shape
when you feel fat. Don’t read a prenatal magazine if you just found out you’re infertile. And if you’ve just lost your acting
career, don’t turn on the TV to find out who’s working.

I watched a documentary about a sitcom that was bowing out after ten seasons. The actors gushed about the privilege of working
on the show; the writers waxed on about the thrill of collaborating. It stabbed me in the heart. All the memories came flooding
back: my first gig on
Family Ties,
improvising with John Candy on
PT&A,
making directors laugh, doing sketches with the Groundlings, and performing with King Baby. The loss hit me all over again.

Then I imagined God’s responses. “You wanted it too much; it was an idol; life is filled with disappointment; get used to
it; failure has taught you not to love the things of the world.
Blah blah blah.

“Shut up!” I shouted out loud. “Come on, God—can’t you just be sad with me? If I were a kid and I’d just lost a Little League
championship, would you scold me about the need to develop my character? No, you’d give me a hug. So can’t you just for once
be sad for me?” I cried a while. And then the thought intruded.

“Susan. What makes you think I’m not sad?”

I talked about it in class. “How did you know it was God speaking?” Terrie asked.

“Because it’s not the God-voice I’m used to manufacturing. I usually give him jerky things to say. This wasn’t from my vocabulary.”

“I have no experience with God speaking,” Terrie reminded me. “What was it like?”

“I guess it’s like intuition.”

“Okay. I get that.”

“I think of my intuition as my higher self,” Andrea replied.

“But maybe your higher self is really God trying to speak.”

“That’s great if God feels sad for you,” Andrea went on, “but why doesn’t he also do something to help?”

“I don’t know anymore. Maybe it’s not his job.”

Susan: Have you ever gotten the feeling that you turned a corner and most of your life is behind you?

Rudy: Yes. That’s the beauty of a midlife crisis: now you can focus your fire on the things that truly matter.

Susan: How can I have a midlife crisis when I haven’t had a life?

Rudy: (Laughing) Then it’s a crisis over how to make the rest of your life count.

Susan: I feel like I’m sitting on a dock, watching all the boats go out to sea, crying over all the boats I didn’t take: the
roles I passed on, the opportunities I botched, the Really Nice Guys I was too stupid to date. I can keep sitting on the dock
crying over the boats I didn’t board or I can go down to the harbor and get on another boat.