Wreck My Life Read online

  I felt captive to the world’s perception of me. A slave to pretending that I was healing, giving prepackaged glory to a God I didn’t know. My lips stayed sealed with my practiced smile but my mind was shouting for freedom. I was at the breaking point, ravaged by my internal battle. It had been a year of anguish, preceded by several years of feeling lost, then found, then lost again. It seemed like I was on a roller-coaster ride and my heart wanted off. I was done!

  My car continued to speed down the interstate as night crept into morning. Even though the mile markers assured me I was headed home, I felt like I was crawling. The hours dragged by and my eyes hung heavy and my phone kept buzzing and all of it was just annoying.

  Then it was one in the morning and I realized that, for the most part, I was the only car on the road. I spotted a few glowing deer eyes in the woods as I passed, but they were hard to catch amid the fog. The fog began to thicken, until it was so dense it blanketed the street and swirled up from the median. My car split through it at eighty miles per hour as I slumped, mentally numb, in the driver’s seat.

  It would almost be easier not to care. Easier to crawl between the sheets of a “friend” and keep secrets of what happened in the dark, to talk the talk and rest in the lies and accept the praise. After all, I knew all the right things to say—whether they were truthful or not. I could just take the depression meds and convince myself they’d work one day. I could just laugh along with the world’s sense of humor and be entertained by the newest craze. It would be easier to fall back into my pity when the tension was too tight. To blame my behavior on the scars of my circumstances and to rationalize that it would someday all be fine.

  It would almost be easier to exalt my wreckage than to seek the seemingly fleeting God who had wrecked Himself on my behalf. If the year had convinced me of anything, it was that this God, the God everyone shoved down my throat, the Healer and Redeemer and Restorer, was far, far away from me. Sure, I was good at regurgitating memorized praises, but in my broken, burned-out state, my calloused heart prayed not for salvation or for strength but for proof. For months I’d pleaded for proof.

  Prove it. If You’re so real, if You love me the way everyone says You do, reveal Yourself to me. I want what everyone else seems to have and if somehow that’s from You, give it to me! Prove it!

  In desperation I’d spent months petitioning a God whom I demanded cater to my need for proof. I’d tried fighting the tension by demanding God fix my circumstances and bless me out of my mess. I half-believed He might—and half-believed my prayers were a last-ditch effort I could pretend I hadn’t been desperate enough to pray, if anyone asked, when still nothing had changed.

  I’d tried challenging God into restoring my brokenness, never realizing that He heard my cries and knew my brokenness better than I knew myself. Never realizing that my pleas for revelation were about to be answered by a Father who wasn’t trying to preserve me but rather was willing to wreck me for His glory.

  A Father who’d been waiting for such a time as this—to wreck my life.

  I glanced over to see a sign glowing green in the night. Atlanta—100 miles. Thank goodness. I was nearing the state line and home was almost in sight.

  When I caught the road again, the fog was dense and spinning. Before I could make sense of the moment, my steering wheel began to jolt and jerk. Cranking side to side, I realized my wheels were twisting through mud and grass. I had been speeding down the left lane and was now dropping off the side of the road. My mind snapped out of its haze and, in desperation, I clenched the cold leather wheel and pulled it hard to the right.

  Get back on the road! Get back on the road!

  My heart pounded and my muscles tensed in fear as I tried desperately to regain control. The fog split and I saw the front of my Jeep speeding forward almost completely perpendicular to the lines on the asphalt.

  No! No! This can’t happen! Get back on the road!

  My Jeep lunged back onto the pavement and charged straight over it toward a wooded embankment. I desperately pulled back to the left as my wheel caught a deep divot—and in the deepest parts of me I knew it was over.

  My body gave way to the force that was overwhelming my car. Fear paralyzed me. A piercing, screaming, indescribable type of fear. A fear that flooded me as fast as a rushing waterfall but forced time to slow to a drip. My stomach felt as though it might bulge up into my throat as I realized my equilibrium was way off. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath in, and let out a gut-wrenching groan as metal screeched and glass shattered.

  My body slapped and ripped against itself, the window, the side of the car, the steering wheel. My ears rung as the sounds of destruction roared and my neck whipped with the rolling, wrenching force.

  My eyes tore open in time to see a steel signpost speeding closer. Then muddy ground. The empty street. The freezing, dark sky.

  My head burned and my eyes stung and debris pounded against my face. The noise only grew louder and I realized, as I choked back some unknown heat, that half of that noise was roaring out of me. My body thrashed and whipped and coiled and—

  Slam!

  Everything went black.

  2

  Buying into Wrecked Religion

  When I was growing up, my family looked good on the outside. Really good. We all begin with the best of intentions. Wreckage is never planned.

  As a young child I was oblivious to the tension that was slowly growing tighter behind closed doors. You could have convinced me my parents were superheroes and our house was a palace. I was unaware of how much the cracks in the foundations of our family would affect me later on. It’s beautiful, really—the mind of a child. Content with the simplest treasures and captivated by the tiniest joys.

  My family lived in a middle-class Georgia suburb that often liked to act like it was a little wealthier than its bank accounts might have proven. But my house nestled itself deep in a warm neighborhood that always seemed to welcome us, and the walls of our Cape Cod–style home creaked with decades of laughter and tears and frustrations and life. We weren’t the wealthiest family, but we lived well.

  I was a stubborn, bullheaded child with a big imagination and even bigger brown eyes. What I lacked in grace I made up for in grit. My mom and dad learned quickly that it was going to take a unique style of parenting to bend my unbridled will without breaking it. I’d like to argue those features have come full circle to serve me well in life, but the massive bald spot on my dad’s head and the gray my mom still dyes out of her hair might sing a different tune.

  My parents seemed to be all that a young girl’s parents should be—supportive, passionate, encouraging, patient, strict, loving, and proud. If you stared long enough into my mom’s gentle eyes, you could see the same flames of passion and drive that licked in the twinkle of my own. She was fabulous. And theatrical. And larger than life to a young girl who was hungry for life in its fullest.

  I may have titled myself a “daddy’s girl” and chosen to sweat far more often than I smiled, but there was something about my mom that mesmerized me. When I wasn’t building forts barefoot in the woods, I was using the shaving cream cap to scrape imaginary hair off my legs and copying a mommy who made beauty seem effortless. When I wasn’t rolling around on muddy soccer fields, I was rolling on the floor of her home office, admiring how fast she typed and how confidently she took calls.

  Her scent was intoxicating, as was her courage. I think that’s why the few times I stumbled in on her crying, I never quite knew how to act. And when the man standing across from her with an embarrassed look quickly turned the conversation, all I knew to do was laugh in his arms and believe everything would be fine. After all, he was my hero. I was my daddy’s girl.

  His size alone commanded a room—but his deeply bronzed skin served well to soften his imposing frame. He was quick to crack jokes and even quicker to crack a sly smile, with his crooked front teeth and his infectious ease. I was convinced my dad was invincible—the picture of strength
and love. If he wasn’t waking me up, bounding up onto my bed with all three hundred pounds of his belly, he was playing oldies through the house and firing up the grill. He may have been an attorney by trade, but he was just an Alabama boy at heart. He was so easy for a child to love because oftentimes he believed he was still a child too.

  My older sister, Sloan, and I were my parents’ greatest prizes, but I’d like to think the tomboy in me fed my dad’s particular hope for an athlete in the family. His college football days at Carson Newman were long since passed, though he had plenty of scars that told tales of first downs and Saturday night glory. As for Sloan, sports were not quite her thing. Piano keys replaced cleat laces and her love for science transformed one of our home closets into a miniature laboratory.

  She and I could not have been more different. I was a wrecking ball with loud, stubborn confidence and she was the truest of introverts who wisped about in silence and with charm. She was a firstborn in every sense, fully content with her nose in a good book and the spotlight directed far away from her. If the people around her were pleased and appeased, then she was happy. And the fact that she survived being my big sister says a lot more about her strength and wit than I could ever write.

  I loved my family. Fiercely. As a child, I loved the life we were blessed to live. We had all the ingredients and all the pieces in place, it seemed. But in many ways, that was a dangerous thing.

  I think it’s a bit of a catch-22 to grow up living a privileged, comfortable life. The parents know how much work it takes to keep everything balanced and how much sacrifice it takes to provide a pleasurable life for their kids, but in the children’s eyes—in mine, at least—it all just ends up looking easy.

  We don’t know trouble because we’re protected from it. We don’t know hardship because those who love us take the blows for us. Somewhere along the line we begin to assume we’re entitled to this protection, that it’s a given. We begin to realize that if we want to continue receiving this love and praise it’s wise to go with the flow. We memorize how to follow in the footsteps of our family. A trait that, in many ways, can benefit our earthly lives, but if we’re not careful can risk our eternal ones.

  A Faith by Inheritance

  I followed my family’s footsteps right into wrecked religion. I wonder how many of us have done the same. That’s not to say Christianity itself was broken or flawed, or that our church was doing a sub-par job. In fact, our church was incredible, and led well by those living boldly in God’s will. But my perspective of the faith was far off-base, and it seemed that no amount of preaching could compel that to change.

  My mom worked hard to instill in my sister and me what it meant to be godly women. She shared her faith. She answered our questions. She clung to the cross. But in my eyes it was just a part of our family’s weekly routine. To be honest, church on Sunday felt as mundane as school on a weekday. As expected as soccer practice on a Tuesday. As dreaded as homework at night. It was just another one of those “things” we had to do.

  I guess I assumed that showing up made me a Christian. That somehow my attendance qualified me. I mean, my parents were Christians. That alone was enough of a defining factor, right? I had grown up hearing all about Jesus, God, and the cross. I must have heard the gospel ten thousand times. Surely that counted for something. I knew all about God. I knew that Jesus died for my sins. I guess what I missed was why it was supposed to matter.

  The truth was, in my mind, being a Christian was expected. Religion was just another piece to the puzzle of a well-lived life.

  If you had asked me then, I would have said there were certain things that made someone a Christian. Things we were supposed to do. I was supposed to dress up on Sundays and go to church. I was supposed to listen to the teachings and sing the hymns and read my Bible. On our drive home, I was supposed to talk about what the pastor had taught us. I was supposed to pray. I was supposed to do good things—to do the right things. I was supposed to be a good person.

  I didn’t ask too many questions beyond that. The stories were compelling and the teachings were encouraging and sometimes I’d walk away having felt something special. But, in truth, I didn’t even really care enough about religion to think any further about it than the two hours on Sunday where I was required to find God relevant.

  I was comfortable with God in a box and church on a checklist and a cross on my necklace. As if my seat in a pew reserved me a seat in heaven.

  What’s scary is that this mentality is ultimately where my brokenness began and, at the same time, what seemed normal and comfortable. My simpleminded perspective of faith was that Christianity was more an expectation than a radical revelation. Religion was a way to guide people’s behaviors—an encouraging outlet for inspiration.

  It’s no wonder church was a “to-do” on my checklist. I knew all about God but didn’t truly know God, and I had no idea there was a difference. I was comfortable enough with showing my face in church and hoping one day, when I stood before the Lord, some of my friends and family would stand beside me and remind God just how many times I had shown up and what a good person I was.

  What I didn’t realize at the time was that showing our face doesn’t earn us grace. When we stand before the Lord, we will stand alone. We’re selling ourselves short when we shrink the house of the Lord to the size of a ticket that hopefully we can punch when we die. Going through the motions can only entertain us for so long. Eventually, the gospel will feel canned when it’s preached to us. When it’s preached at us. We’ll sit unfazed and dying as lifesaving news goes in one ear and out the other. Like skeletons lining the church pews hoping that if we attend enough at some point we’ll come back to life. But our hearts know better and will yearn for something more. And in our hope that the world will give more to us, we’ll put broken things on a pedestal and rely on them to teach us what we haven’t seemed to learn. We’ll put God-sized expectations on the people around us. When imperfect people fall short and fail us, we’ll build a false perception of an imperfect God who will inevitably do the same.

  Exalting Wrecked Idols

  We all have that person who paints our picture of love. The person we exalt as somehow more than human. The one we always trust will have open arms when we come running. The one we turn to with our questions and concerns.

  They’re the person whose love for us defines, in our minds, what love must really mean. We hold on to them tightly. We lift them up as mighty. When we hear talk about a God who is love, we believe this person must be the closest thing.

  But the closest thing is never actually the thing. And when we try to fit a human being into a God-sized mold, we’re bound for disappointment somewhere along the way. Because people are not perfect. People will fail us. When a conditional person frames our understanding of unconditional love, our hearts can be left confused. When that person falls short, we’ll believe love has fallen short. And when that person fails us, we’ll think love has failed us. We’ll all end up in the same place—walking on eggshells to maintain a fragile love that requires more than any person can give.

  That person for me was my daddy. Oh, how I loved him. He was my very best friend. I remember that when I was little I would woefully explain to my mom that she should enjoy her years with Daddy. Because when I got big enough and grew up he was going to be my husband too.

  No man could compare to the daddy who wrapped me up in big bear hugs and who threw me up on his shoulders when my legs were tired. The man who sat through my pajama-clad Spice Girls performances and tickled my knee every time I rode shotgun in his old silver truck. The man who drove me to every soccer practice, every game, and every camp. Who toted me along to Braves games and cheered beside me when we made it onto the Jumbotron. The one who fought for me, provided for me, and believed in me.

  No man could come close to my daddy. In my eyes, he was love.

  I guess the confusion and wreckage began the day I opened the door to his truck and a playing card fell out. I pi
cked it up to stuff it back into the black plastic bag it had fallen from behind the passenger seat. But when I turned it over I saw the picture of a naked woman. And a man. Doing things I certainly didn’t understand.

  Then there was the night I tiptoed downstairs to get a late-night snack and instead turned the corner to see my dad on the couch watching TV. And the images on the screen made my heart feel dirty for even seeing. And the countless times I’d walk into the home office and catch him quickly turning off the computer screen.

  Pornography.

  It was dirty. Confusing for a child to see.

  I didn’t know at the time what a stronghold it held over my father’s life. Every piece of me prayed my mommy didn’t know. Oh, how I hoped my mommy didn’t know. It was disturbing and filthy. But the most confusing thing to me was that when I’d innocently stumble in on my dad’s struggle, I was the one who would get in trouble.

  His clenched jaw and stern eyes and embarrassed, flustered look almost demanded silence. I was made to feel guilty. Suddenly another’s sins became my shame. I realized the daddy I loved was full of broken things.

  The older I became the harder he became to read. Sometimes I’d walk in on him reading his Bible and other times I’d catch him watching porn. There were times he would lead our family in prayer and other times I’d peek during prayer to see him staring at the football game on TV in the background. There were times I’d see him help the weak and love on the poor, and other times I’d see him waste hours on the couch while my mom worked tirelessly to meet our needs.

  It was confusing, really. To love a man so fiercely but see apathy weave through his days. To see a man as your hero but question his faithfulness in many ways.

  But every time he fell short and I noticed, I was the one who was punished. And everything in me hated failing my father. My stomach would sink when I knew he was disappointed and I learned quickly that the good things I did would bring attention and praise and the things I did wrong, which always seemed to change, brought condemnation and shame.