Stories at Lake

“Religion,” my father would say, “is a form of social control.”

In our atheist home, there was no such thing as God, much less any “super hero” named Jesus. Anyone who believed in God, I thought, was dumb, naïve, and gullible.

When I was seven years old, the neighborhood church advertised a free carnival for kids.

We lived on the westside of Chicago in the 80s. My impressionable eyes were accustomed to ads for cigarettes and casinos—not carnivals.

The shiny, colorful flyers promised food, games, prizes, and COTTON CANDY. I loved cotton candy. I was SOLD!

“Pleeeeeease,” I begged my parents. “Pretty pleeeeease?”

“Honey,” my mother lowered her voice. “It’s dangerous.”

“Daaaad?!” I stubbornly challenged. “It’s a carnival!”

“No!” His nostrils flared. “It’s a CHURCH!”

Sheesh! I told my seven-year-old self. My parents are MEAN!

Years later, a secret about my father came to light. When he was an altar boy, a church elder robbed him of his innocence. What transpired in that church caused my father a great deal of pain and shame. He turned away from God and became angry, abusive, and addicted to drugs, alcohol, and pornography.

Unbeknownst to my family, I was walking in my father’s shadow. Behind closed doors, I was smoking his weed, drinking his rum, and watching his films. I knew which channels to press and buttons to push to get the images I craved.

As my father’s addictions intensified, mine followed suit. I cursed like a sailor and smoked like a chimney. But in class, I was an award-winning, straight-A student.

As long as I handled my business at school, I convinced myself, it didn’t matter what hell I raised at home. I was 12 years old, living a double life.  

When I turned 13, my parents abandoned me in Los Angeles. They left me with my 19-year-old sister, a freshman in college.

We never learned why.

My sister juggled the demands of being a full-time student, part-time employee, and unplanned mother. I never once heard her complain. She was only a teen herself, but in my eyes, she was the best parent in the world.

She became my biggest cheerleader. She convinced me that one day, I would go to college too. She was right. I attended college on a full-ride scholarship. When I was 26 years old, I earned my Ph.D.

In many ways, I was living a picture perfect life. I had a promising career in academia, I was married to my high school sweetheart, and I lived comfortably in our beautiful home. But there was one catch: I was addicted to pornography.

Ultimately, we resulted in divorce.

I drowned in shame as I cried myself to sleep for an entire year.

I hit an emotional rock bottom, and for the first time in my life, I sought a higher being.

The evening of February 6, 2012 I decided to reach out to this “God” everyone talked about. I closed my eyes and relaxed. I pictured a big, silver afro on his head. It made me think of the ‘fro on my head when I was a kid.

The likeness made me smile.

I started to feel at ease.

I got over the fact that I was talking to someone I couldn’t see.

I released.

I cried a gentle cry and said:

“God, I don’t know who you are. I don’t even know if you exist. Everyone says you’re pretty awesome though, and that you know everything. EVERYTHING! If that’s the case, you know all my secrets, which is pretty cool ‘cause it’s like having a best friend that knows everything without having to say everything. But it’s also kinda weird that YOU know everything about ME, but I don’t know anything about YOU. So, God, listen, here’s the deal: I wanna get to know you—the real you—NOT what people say about you or what I hear about you. I WANNA GET TO KNOW YOU FOR MYSELF. But, listen God, I’ve been a skeptic my whole life. So I’m warning you: I’m a tough cookie. But stick with me. If you’re real, I’ll come around, I promise. And if you ARE real, I promise, I’ll love you.”

Tears streamed down my face as I felt God’s presence. For the first time in my life, I felt inner peace.

But in the morning, my intellectual mind kicked in.

Does God REALLY exist? I mean, come on, let’s be real.

I needed evidence.

In search of answers, I turned to books. I read everything from New Age to Neuroscience, but nothing, absolutely nothing, eased my mind.

Part frustration, part curiosity, I reached for the unthinkable: A BIBLE.

How, I wondered, would I ever get through this monstrosity?

With no direction, I struggled through the Old Testament.

After months of aimless reading, I met an author at a golf tournament who was looking for an editor. He had a book, he said, that needed a lot of work. I expressed interest in the project and we agreed to meet for lunch the following week.

We sat at a restaurant with the manuscript smack in the middle of the table. We placed our orders, and before I could take a sip of water, he dropped the “J” bomb: the book was about Jesus.

“I’m not Christian,” I said. I politely slid the manuscript away from me and scanned the room for the nearest exit.

“Well I am,” he responded. “And I have faith that you’re the right person for this job.”

We went back and forth for hours. Ultimately, I accepted the challenge.

The project required countless hours of Bible study and scripture reading.

At first, the project felt like work. Like any mundane job, I clocked in and I clocked out.

But then, one day, I read the Book of Job and the Book of Proverbs and the Book of John.

I stayed up all night in disbelief.

The Bible talks about SEX?!

I found scripture that encouraged me to heal.

The more I read the Bible, the more I believed in God.

Each night I continued to talk to God. I told him about my day, my fears, my insecurities. He became my best friend. Our relationship filled a void in my heart.

God was fulfilling the intimacy I so intensely craved.

I joined a Celebrate Recovery group. The more I shared about my struggles, my vices, my past, the better I felt. I learned we’re only as sick as our secrets. I realized I was not alone.

Months later, when I finished editing the book, I sent the author a message, “I’m done second-guessing.”

That night, I prayed and accepted Christ as my Lord and Savior.

Soon after, I flew to Chicago to reconcile with my parents. After not speaking to them for two decades, I embraced them. I told them that I loved them, that I forgave them, and that I was on a healing journey.

I built the courage to be vulnerable. I told them my deepest, darkest secrets. I figured if we were going to have a relationship, we needed to be honest, transparent, and authentic with one another. I needed them to know the real me.

On February 14, 2015, three years after my first “talk” with God, I got baptized. That day I celebrated the death of my former, hedonist self and celebrated my new spiritual life.

When I got home, I called my parents.

“Guess what I did for Valentine’s Day this year?” I said, giddy with excitement.

They guessed the typical stuff.

“Nope,” I said with a smile. “I got baptized.”

I waited in silence as I let the shock settle.

Their immediate response was pure joy. They were genuinely happy for me. “You won’t believe it,” my mother nearly yelled, “but your father and I were just talking about baptisms…”

We had a long conversation about God, forgiveness, and grace. It was peaceful. It was fun. Before we hung up, I asked them to pray for me.

They agreed.

Today, this former skeptic knows one thing for certain: God lives—not in our heads—but in our hearts.

If we confess our sins,
he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins,
and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness
1 John 1:9

Visit www.lakeave.org/celebraterecovery for details about Celebrate Recovery.