Cary Umhau, a frequent participant in conferences and workshops through and a fellow in the , has recently published a spiritual memoir, . In this excerpt from the book, Cary reflects on her pursuit of a unique, flexible faith rather than a cookie-cutter Christianity. Read more about Burning Down the Fireproof Hotel , and check back next week for another excerpt.
鈥淭he glory of God is a human being fully alive,鈥� the second-century bishop Irenaeus once said.
I used to think God was looking for respectable people鈥攖hose who didn鈥檛 mix with the wrong crowd, folks whose desires were never too strong, who recognized Jesus as good but weren鈥檛 going to get all radical about him. The men simply needed to stay sober, make a lot of money, and drive their wives and kids to church in large vehicles with those window stickers depicting the perfect family. The women would put hearts and bows on everything, keep their opinions to themselves, and certainly never travel alone. The children would stay on the college prep path and never deviate.
And even though I wanted parts of that life, I worried that if I became an all-in, committed Jesus girl I鈥檇 stop being me. I鈥檇 develop a taste for cheesy art鈥攇arden gates and dreamy paths鈥攁nd have to give up my taste for Howard Finster and Matisse. I鈥檇 lose my appetite for margaritas and start craving watered-down, churchy-pink punch. I鈥檇 have to leave urban streets for a quiet convent even though I鈥檓 kind of scared of nuns.
Instead I found out that the longer we hang out with God and the more we gulp in his love, the more we become ourselves, our own versions of God鈥檚 image. It still shocks me that he allows us to represent him. It doesn鈥檛 seem wise.
Although I appear confident, I鈥檓 often a fragile mess. I love driving in fast-moving traffic and I hear God best on the road. I rescue random handicrafts from thrift stores because I feel sad for whoever made them. I鈥檓 probably the only debutante who ever sent her photos to Leavenworth Prison, to a pen pal who shellacked them onto plaques, burnished the edges, and sent them back. And I have a great imagination, which means that whenever anyone I love is late, I immediately assume they鈥檝e been chopped into pieces. God can work with that package.
As I鈥檝e grown into my set-free self, I鈥檝e started to look more and more like the kid I was on my better days. I resemble the girl who took just about any dare, getting stuck in a chimney once, and had imaginary playmates鈥擬rs. Sivvers, Grock, The Berber, Mother Evilly and another crew, always a unit, named Peter-Wendy-Allen-and-the-baby鈥攁ll of whose exploits I loved to share.
If God has wooed me with a quirky approach, it may be because 鈥渜uirky鈥� was my native tongue.
My paternal grandfather was a record-breaking aviator, an oil wildcatter, a novelist, and a rogue. He married a former Mardi Gras queen who largely supported him and who ended each and every day by going to bed with a shot of bourbon, a glass of warm beer and a cup of black coffee.
Their son, my father . . . had his last drink in 1957, plays the ukulele, and never stopped noticing struggling people even as he soared to the upper echelons of the Thoroughbred horseracing world, winning the Preakness and the Belmont, two legs of the famed Triple Crown.
“As I’ve grown into my set-free self, I’ve started to look more and more like the kid I was.”
When I was 11 and was being bullied by a crowd of older girls at the barn where I kept my pony, I confided in my father, knowing that he had the wisdom to know how I should react. He told me, 鈥淣ext time they bother you, just wheel around and say to them, 鈥楪o to hell, bitches!鈥欌�� I did exactly that; the teasing stopped.
My mother came from a well-respected line of Baptist preachers and lived her early years in a grand antebellum Georgia home that General Sherman missed. She had a schizophrenic uncle whom her mother insisted was normal. She has taught Sunday school and Bible studies most of her life, smoked cigars for a while, and recently tap-danced to 鈥淚t鈥檚 Raining Men鈥� for her great-grandchildren.
One of my earliest memories involves my maternal grandmother taking me to see the movie Hell鈥檚 Angels on Wheels. I felt exhilarated in the cozy dark seated with my sister, young cousins, and our very proper matriarch with grey curls, church-worthy dress, and high heels in the midst of a crew of black-leather-chapped, muscle-bound motorcycle enthusiasts, watching a movie that was, I now realize, entirely inappropriate for our merry little crew.
When I think of myself as most fully alive, I remember being a teenager enraptured by a perfect day of 68 degrees or so. I picked sprigs and stalks of the azaleas that bloomed profusely in my hometown of Atlanta, Georgia each spring and tucked them behind my ears, in my buttonholes, and in the belt loops of my jeans. I twirled and danced around in circles, dizzy with the joy of being alive . . . until a boy that I liked drove by and honked, and I darted into the side door of the house and put twirling on hold for a few decades.
In my bedroom aerie, with the roar of the air-conditioner as my soundtrack, I would spend hours reading and writing in my journal. I鈥檇 stare down at my parents and sister sun-tanning in the backyard and wonder why I was different, the white sheep in a bronzed family.
At summer camp when other teenagers were competing for sports trophies, I won Fastest Typist. It wasn鈥檛 that I was a sedentary introvert. I was simply over-awed by all the cool girls who made everything look easy and thought I鈥檇 sit out a few rounds. I was also dodging wearing a bathing suit, in which I felt shamefully pale and overweight, even at 100 pounds.
I was the sports mascot in high school, accompanying the cheerleaders and bouncing around in purple high-tops and a fake-fur, full-body suit covered in leopard spots, even though we were the Northside Tigers. My mother hadn鈥檛 been able to find tiger fur at the store, so we improvised.
Nonplussed, I danced, frolicked, and even twirled on the gravelly sidelines of our Friday night football games. The smell of hot dogs and Coke wafted through the air as the marching band played 鈥淒ancing Queen,鈥� 鈥淪hake Your Booty,鈥� and 鈥淭he Hustle鈥� (the last one seemingly over and over). Boys teased me and children pulled my tail. With giddy joy welling up behind that white fake-fur tiger tummy, I felt bold and free as long as I had on my mask.
Check back in the coming weeks聽for two more聽excerpts from Burning Down the Fireproof Hotel.