God and I don't get along. We have had a terrible relationship, much worse than my relationship with Sleep. This is probably because I have no problem admitting that Sleep actually exists; most nights, it is there for me, if only briefly. But God? I was raised Catholic and spent every Sunday in church getting to know God through Father McDougal, God's earthly voice and face. Father McDougal looked like a priest carved from granite, with hair as white as bones, and he never, never smiled. Had God given the muscles in Father McDougal's face the strength to form those tight lips into a smile, I think his face would have shattered, like stone under a hammer. Father McDougal stood under a white cross with a white Jesus crucified upon it and showed me God.

He showed me that God insists on blind obedience; He makes arbitrary rules and insists that they be followed exactly at all times; He judges people harshly for the smallest mistakes and metes out enormous punishments; He insists that everyone believe every crazy thing He says without question; He toys with and uses those who love him most; and in the end, He murders his own son. The God of the Bible, God the Father, reminded me too much of bitter, rageful, domineering, alcoholic mortal fathers. And that, I thought, may be the way life here on earth works, but it cannot possibly be the way the universe works.

Like a teenage runaway from an abusive home, I was gone the second I was able. No more church, no more God. My mother told me that eventually, when life got really rough, I would come back home to the church, as she had, where the familiar rituals would comfort and heal me.

A few years ago, everything started to fall apart for me: my son was showing delays that would eventually be diagnosed as autism, my husband was out of work, I was pregnant with my daughter which left me sick and exhausted and unable to work myself, my mother had cancer, and then my husband's sex addiction came to light. And I felt like Job, only instead of having trials heaped upon me to see if I would lose faith, I had trials heaped upon me so that I would find faith. God was testing me. He was saying, "Soon you will break and then you will have no choice but to admit that I exist, no choice but to come home and ask me for help." God is all about the tough love. And I'd say, "Oh, yeah. Is that the best you got? Go ahead hit me again! Come on, hit me with your best shot!" Then I'd sing God my best angry Pat Benatar. And say, "God, you're supposed to be all knowing; so stop wasting your infinite time, because you should know you can't win." And God would hit me again.

I sought help and support from an S-Anon 12 Step group, but I had trouble getting past the whole "higher power" thing. Everyone's higher power seemed to be God: everyone, except me. God and I did not get along. I knew where my power came from; it came not from some God out there, but from inside me. It was this small darkly radiant part of me, like the Hubble telescope image of a star being born: light cloaked in darkness, in clouds. It was the part of me I tapped into when I was writing, something beyond me, something divine. Something not just in myself, but in everyone, sometimes more darkly shrouded than others, but always there nonetheless.

One day, a few years ago, my husband did something horrifically hurtful. I don't even remember what it was now, I only remember that it was one more horrifically hurtful thing added to the pile of horrifically hurtful things he had already done. I locked myself in our bedroom, threw myself on the bed and sobbed, because the weight of the hurt was crushing me. I don't remember what got me out of bed and sitting in meditation, but I did get up and I did sit. I tried to focus on my breathing and still my mind, but I kept sobbing, sinking down under that weight. And this old Howard Jones song popped into my head: "Give Me Strength to Carry On." (Yeah, you better believe I am a child of the 80's.) And I thought, now is the time when people pray, when they ask God to give them strength. Maybe I should pray.

And as I faltered, I looked inside, into the core of myself. And I pictured the heart of me, that divine light wrapped in cloud. And my higher power spoke to me; this voice from inside me said, "What? Are you kidding me? You don't believe in God! Screw God! You don't need to go begging God to give you strength, because you are strong. Your strength is already right here inside you." And all that weight lifted; I could stand up and carry it. I was strong. And I said, "Hey wait, that's right. I am strong! In your face, God!"

Now, some people will say that was God giving me strength. But God and I know the truth: we just don't get along.