Angry Conversations with God (31 page)

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, where 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 L
ORD
, 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 L
ORD
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 replied, “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.”