Effortless Effervescence

I used to think – or, at least, hope – that I was destined for greatness.

I had fantasies as an adolescent of being a famous actress (not much of a stretch, had I actually worked hard to hone my dramatic talents and went through the painful and ego-crushing experience of attempting to make a career in film or on stage) or rock star (ironic and impossible because I’m not musically gifted AT ALL) or writer (I began writing imitative stories when I was in just fourth grade; at the age of eleven I read Gone with the Wind and was convinced I’d produce an equally paradigm-shaking work of art by the end of middle school) or famous-by-association because I dated someone very talented/rich/intelligent/respected/yougettheidea. I believed that someday, someone would notice me, notice how special I am (cue The Pretenders), and call for the attention of the whole world: “Check out this Emily gal! She is something else.”

Some would call me a raging narcissist. I prefer to think of myself as a very sensitive soul who dealt with standard childhood rejection by escaping into a world where everyone worshipped me. And I don’t feel all that bad about it, especially since I know that world doesn’t exist and I’m (usually) content to live in the real world, where more than enough people love and appreciate me.

Speaking of raging narcissists, my Evil Ex-Pastor used to tell his minions that we were destined to do “something great for God.” The person who should have taught me the value of humility and selfless giving instead preached and modeled an intense self-focus that did very little to cure me of my need to be “special.” The environment that should have fostered gratitude for God’s grace freely given – no matter how much or how little we have to offer Him – became an environment that made me think I had to measure up to some cosmic yardstick. “To whom much is given, much is required,” was a verse oft-quoted in our little cult – and never once did it occur to me that maybe Jesus wasn’t talking about working ourselves to exhaustion trying to earn something that cannot be bought or sold. Never once did it occur to me, when my pastor would go into one of his red-faced screaming rages about how we were pissing our life away and how God had created us to be spiritual giants and we were making choices that would lead us into sin and obscurity, that maybe my pastor – and I – had it all wrong. Maybe God hadn’t handed us a heavenly to-do list when we were born and shook his head with disappointment when we didn’t check off our daily allotment of assignments.

It never occurred to me that God’s idea of greatness might be different from ours.

After I was liberated from the cult, some of the things I was taught were easy to throw off – I rebelled against them openly, almost offensively. Other things I understood academically but struggled to feel their truth. Still others I didn’t realize were lies until years later – and I’m sure there are still some deeply embedded grains of deception that I’ll be discovering for years to come. That’s all right, because life is long and recovery is a process and I don’t think God ever meant for us to heal in an instant.

I had an inkling of what living a great life might really mean when my ex-husband’s father passed away in early 2004. He was a poor man, unlucky in love, unemployed and without any assets to speak of. He lived with my ex and I, and sometimes made remarks that indicated he considered himself a burden – the very last word either of us would have used to describe him. I’m sure he felt, at the end of his 54 years, disappointed with the way life had turned out, regret over the choices he’d made, and bitter toward those who’d abused him. I’m not sure he understood, though, what a wealth of love he had given to his son and me, and many of our friends. I only wish he’d known how much he meant to so many people, how fondly we remembered him and celebrated his life. Even today, as I write this, I find it difficult to keep my composure as I think of such a valuable person gone too soon from this world.

It was as I prepared to speak at his memorial service that I began to understand the truth of 1 Corinthians 13:13, “These three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” All we take with us into the next life are those intangible things we hide in our heart, not the material things we acquire or the accolades we collect. So what ought to be our focus in life?

As I said, I was just beginning to understand this. Post-cult life was difficult; I had to forge a new identity. Actually, it’d be more accurate to say that I needed to discover my true identity, but that’s not what I tried to do at first. I tried to make myself into the person I thought I wanted to be – someone special, extraordinary. I began to daydream again of making a name for myself as a writer or artist. I had fantasies of being a guest on the Oprah show and having her just gush over how wise beyond my years and fabulously gorgeous I am. I dated a lot – or rather, threw myself into the arms of a variety of totally inappropriate pseudo-boyfriends, trying to get them to recognize what a unique and special snowflake I am, dammit. (They did not cooperate, which now makes me breathe a sigh of relief.) As the years went by and I never finished my Great American Novel, as I plugged away in my safe and steady and not-at-all flashy job, as I entered and exited ill-advised “relationships,” I would sometimes, late at night, be consumed with the fear that maybe I was truly gifted, and meant for greatness – but I would never achieve it because I was too afraid, too lazy, too timid, too broken.

I was living a secular life, but I still felt bound by the fear I felt while eating, sleeping, breathing church – that I wouldn’t measure up. Good enough wasn’t good enough (that’s actually a line my pastor used!) – I had to be GREAT. And what if I wasn’t? Then perhaps my life had been wasted. How would I bear the regret of reaching the end of my days without accomplishing something of real value? Considering that my definition of “something of real value” was “something that made me rich and famous,” the chance that I would have to bear that regret was very high. This terrified me.

To Be Continued…

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