Angry Conversations with God

by Susan E. Isaacs

  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.

  Chapter 18

  FOR FUN AND FOR FREE

  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 SARA GROVES

  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.

  Terrie had lots of ways to fire our writers’ imaginations. One morning she laid out paper and crayons and told us to draw, spontaneously, whatever came to our minds. “Don’t think; just draw.”

  On the far left I drew two globes. They looked like breasts. So I drew a torso. I copied the same torso to the right, and drew chains on it. Don’t ask me why; I just drew. The two torsos were asking for a third, like frames for a cartoon. So I did what it asked. In the third frame I drew the chained torso in flames. Then a fourth, wher
e the chains fell off and left a pile of dust. On the fifth and final frame I drew a skeleton. It stood upright, a pile of chains smoldering at its feet. The expression was blank.

  “Ooh, what is it?” Andrea squealed.

  “It’s me, I guess. Getting barbecued.”

  “I like the skeleton.” Andrea smiled. “It’s fun. It’s just standing there saying, ‘Hey, what’s up?’”

  “Wait.” I inhaled. “I know what this is! It’s the Valley of Dry Bones. God put Ezekiel in a trance and showed him a valley filled with dry bones. And God asked, ‘Son of man, can these bones live?’ And Ezekiel said, ‘O Sovereign LORD, only you know’” (see Ezek. 37:3).

  Later I went home and read the rest of the passage: “I will put my Spirit in you and you will live, and I will settle you in your own land. Then you will know that I the LORD have spoken, and I have done it” (37:14). I wondered if God could breathe life back into my dry bones. I looked at the skeleton drawing again. Andrea was right; it seemed to be saying, “Hey, what’s up?” Or maybe, “What’s next?”

  “Oh, Lord, only you know.”

  Rudy and I continued to discuss the decision I had to make. If I asked God back, would I have to do whatever he said? Did I have to give up on the idea of a life filled with adventure or purpose or meaning? I pictured my old view of God, forcing me to order toner for the rest of my life: “You’re going to do it. And you’re going to like it.”

  Rudy: Have you ever read the Westminster Confession of Faith?

  Susan: I know the opening line: “The chief purpose of man is to glorify God and enjoy him forever.”

  Rudy: Have you ever enjoyed God? Has he ever enjoyed you?

  Susan: I spent my life trying to get God to give me things I would enjoy.

  Rudy: But have you ever enjoyed him? Just for who he is, for fun and for free?

  Susan: When I was young, I enjoyed sensing his presence. I enjoyed the beauty of the Psalms and the mystery of Communion. I respected God because he loved justice. I loved Jesus because he preferred the outcasts to the powerful. I loved that about him—for fun and for free. But God has shown goodness to me too. He’s given me so many second chances. And I never heard him say, “I told you so.”

  Rudy: Does God enjoy you?

  Susan: Maybe this is why I can’t let go of art, because that’s when I feel like I’m alive. When I’m reading my stories, I’m playing my note. I’m telling the truth. People listening get to hear something about God that’s not a James Dobson mix tape. I think God must enjoy that, right?

  Rudy: Are you getting paid for any of it?

  Susan: Ha, I get it, Rudy. “For fun and for free.”

  Rudy: What else do you have that’s for fun and for free?

  Susan: My cat. My friends. And this is really lame, but there’s 3:16.

  Rudy: Do you mean John 3:16? “For God so loved the world”?

  Susan: No. My birthday is 3/16. March 16. It’s a dorky, superstitious thing. I keep catching the clock when it’s 3:16 p.m. I’ve even woken up in the middle of the night, and it’s 3:16 a.m. It’s bizarre.

  Rudy: And what do you think God’s saying?

  Susan: “Hey, man, just thinkin’ about ya.”

  My sponsor told me to make a gratitude list every night when I went to bed. “Just list anything you’re grateful for.” At first the list was small. “Coffee, friends, cat.” I added 3:16. And every day I added more:

  The rosemary bushes outside Rudy’s office. The trees that smell like honeysuckle in spring. Terrie’s class. Andrea’s laugh. The planets. My cat, who survived all those crosscountry trips and couches and is still loyal and loving. My apartment that gets light on four sides and has a cat door so I don’t have to have a litter box. The man in the beret driving the VW.

  My family. My brothers. Nancy, who annoys me with Christian clichés that still manage to plant a seed of truth. For knowing my whole life’s story and knowing what I mean when I say, “I miss Dad anyway.” My mother, who despite her fears and retreat from life, introduced me to God and prays for me every day. Even when she can’t remember my name. My crappy survival job, because I love the people. Dwight, because he despises “engaging the culture.”

  I ate this pear the other day. I hate pears; pears have no flavor. It was a Comice pear. It was exquisite. How does God do that? There is so much beauty in the world. And, God, why can’t you give me a little of that? No, scratch that. I’m not complaining.

  The gratitude list worked. The more I wrote down, the more I became grateful. In fact, my life really didn’t change that much. I still worked a survival job; I still didn’t have an agent. But I changed. I could still be a turd, but at least I was a lesscomplaining turd and a more grateful one.

  I finally got up the courage to call up my old boss: Les, the funny, sweet, atheist writer who insisted I keep writing essays. He came to one of my shows and invited me to lunch the next day. We met at a chichi restaurant joint favored by Beverly Hills agents. Les showed up wearing a golf hat with a cotton turtle on top. I loved that about Les; he didn’t care what anyone thought. We sat down, and he beamed at me with his ridiculous gap-toothed smile.

  “I did what you said, Les. I kept writing. I wish I had a happier story to write.”

  “It was terrific,” Les replied. “I don’t need a happy story right now.” He told me his grown daughter was dying of cancer. “She’s more content than I’ve ever seen her. She found God.”

  “Oh?” I replied.

  “She’s found a terrific church. They sing those jingly-jangly songs and pray for her. She’s not going to beat it. But she’s joyful. There’s a lot of love at her church.”

  “Oh, you’ve been there?” I asked. (I wanted to stand on the table and yell, “NO WAY! PRAISE JESUS!” But we were in a chichi restaurant and Les had a turtle on his head.)

  “She takes me every week. Which is why I wanted to talk to you. I want to know about Jesus.”

  I’d had a few spiritual highs in my life: like going out to that monastery in the desert. But those highs came from dreaming about the road ahead. This time I got to look backward at the road I’d traveled: a road I lamented for all the detours caused by my mistakes. But if I hadn’t become a drunk and squandered my savings, I’d never have gone to work for Les. Les gave me a gift: he believed in my writing. Now I got to give him a gift in return—a gift that would last for eternity. I cried most of the ride home. I thanked God for the ruins and the detours; some of them offered a view more spectacular than any wide stretch of easy road.

  Several months later, my New York agent called: the casting office for Hairspray wanted to see me for another round of auditions.

  “I pray this is it!” Dwight yelled. “I pray God gets you out of this crappy office job. Susan, you are not meant to order toner.”

  I flew back to New York. Mark coached me through my audition piece. “You are going to kick Broadway’s ass, Miss Isaacs!”

  And I did.

  “How great it would be if you came back here. You can sleep on my couch!”

  “But what about your boyfriend?”

  “Boyfriend?” Mark drew a blank. “Oh, that guy. What a codependent nightmare! Susan, those ‘Healing My Inner Gay’ classes just ruined gay for me. I don’t think I’ll ever be straight. But I’m never going to wave a flag in the Gay Pride Parade.”

  It turned out I didn’t get the part. Dwight was more crushed than I was. “I was so sure you’d get it!” he moaned.

  “I know. I just don’t think acting is ever going to happen for me.”

  Travis protested. “If God gives you a desire and you try to put it to death but it keeps coming back, that’s proof that it’s from God and he’s going to fulfill it.”

  “Then where’s my Grammy award?” Micah yelled from the other room.

  “No,” Travis continued. “I mean if God gives you a desire to be married—and you lay it down and it comes back, it’s from the Lord.”

  “May I remind you,” I repli
ed, “that there are far more Christian women in the church than there are men. That means there will be leftovers. Which means women like me who are over forty will probably not find a man. The dream is over.”

  “But God gave you the desire.…”

  “Then he gave me a desire. People in Darfur have a godly desire to live through the day. But some of them don’t. Just because I want something doesn’t mean I’m going to get it.”

  “That’s sad,” Travis moaned.

  “Yes, Travis. It is. But it’s true. And I’m still alive.”

  Terrie’s class kept my writing alive. “Write forward,” Terrie said. “Don’t go back and edit the past. Keep writing until you get to the end of the story.”

  “But I’m still in the middle of it. I don’t think this story will end until I’m dead.”

  “Then you’re a journalist, Susan. You’re a journalist in a foreign country. I’m totally secular; I’ve never been to your God world. But when you keep telling me your story, I get a glimpse of it. I want to go on that journey with you. Trust your story.”

  I kept telling the same God story. Andrea asked me to tell it at a benefit for a gay-lesbian teen organization she started. We went out and read our stories at Hollywood venues. I got over myself. Who cared if I was the middle-class white girl with the God complex? I was just a journalist, reporting what it was like in my trench. And everywhere I went, I met people who, regardless of their religious beliefs, were looking for the same things: a connection to God, a desire to mean something, and a way to stay alive even when dreams die. Old Georgina was right. I got to stand before kings and princes. They were kings and princes to me.