I, like my fellow Canadians, am decidedly low key when it comes to all things religious. North of the 49^th, we’d rather talk about money or sex or an ingrown toenail than discuss our personal religious beliefs with anyone.

My Russian grandparents lost their religion somewhere between building the sod hut and starvation. And somewhere on my maternal side lurks some Presbyterians, but we, my siblings and I, were raised in the most vanilla of religions – the United Church. While my Catholic friends got to wear those pretty white dresses and were fed crackers and grape juice on Sunday, all I could do was keep going to Sunday school and hope for the day I received a gold pin. I don’t know what the gold pin was for, but I knew I wanted one damn it. 

I think that for my parents joining the church was really more of a social thing. There were the summer picnics on Toronto Island and the annual fundraiser of fertilizer sales. Imagine selling shit to raise money for a church—how profound. Our community was young, so my older siblings were actually baptized in the local school, which doubled for the church initially. But by the time I came around, we had a proper church complete with a basement for Guides and a kitchen for social affairs. Every Sunday, I put on the dress my mother made me and dropped my dime in the collection plate. We’d come through the front doors and climb the stairs to the chapel all dressed in our Sunday best. Our minister had a real firebrand spirit for someone in the United Church. He banged on the pulpit and spoke passionately about whatever he was on about that day. I wasn’t really sure what it was all about, but I really enjoyed the show. After the initial bit, we children were sent to the basement for Sunday school. Again, I don’t really remember much about that except that we put on pageants for Easter and Christmas, and I think I played Mary once and sheep a few times.

Around the age of 10, my parents decided we would take up skiing. After that, our church became a snow covered slope, and as summer approached, we never really got back in the swing of things. From that time forward, church was somewhere I went for funerals and weddings. And when they did the prayer thing, I looked uncomfortably at my shoes or closed my eyes real tight and tried to imagine God. Shortly after we joined the Church of Slalom, the newly built addition to our previous church burned down. The church yard and the school yard shared a fence line, and we were outside for recess when it went up in smoke. I’m not entirely sure what God was trying to tell our little community by burning down the building that hundreds of bags of fertilizer paid for. It was memorable for the little bit of chaos it brought to an otherwise dull day at school.

Fast forward some 25 years, and God was still pretty much a stranger to me. As my life got complicated, I turned towards all nature new age books for guidance. I wasn’t quite ready to buy into the whole God thing, and I certainly wasn’t buying that virgin birth story anymore, but I became comfortable with the idea of a “higher” power or the “universe” as I liked to refer to It. I’d say things like “the universe will take care of it” or “just ask the universe,” and for quite a long time, this worked for me. And it really did work—and still does. I could put a request out there in the universe, and darned if it didn’t come to fruition. I had found a sort of religion, and I didn’t have to go anywhere to enjoy it.

As I crested 30, I was 3 years into a relationship that was slowly sucking the life out of me. Work was incredibly stressful, and I was feeling very trapped. I was in high tech sales and I hated it. I was trying to be healthy, but I was a closet smoker—a social smoker. Even though I started smoking around the age of 15, no one, parents, boyfriend etc., really knew I smoked—including me. My denial was so complete that I could look you straight in the eye, lit cigarette in hand and smoke billowing out of my mouth, and tell you that I really didn’t smoke—just when I socialized (i.e., drank). To maintain my delusion of being a non-smoker, I also bummed a lot of cigarettes. To actually have a pack was to admit to something I just wasn’t prepared to face. I was not a smoker! I did buy cigarettes, but just to give to the people I borrowed from. This placated my twisted sense of self. I didn’t have the angst of a Catholic or the guilt of a Jew, but if denial is the hallmark of being raised in the United Church, I had it in spades.

As a way to deal with the unbelievable stress that was building in my life, I found a tai chi course at a local college and I’ve been going weekly for coming on 16 years. My teacher was, and still is, a small, scary German woman. She is only scary because she can look right through me. She is very dedicated to her students. She says very little, but she is always watching. I swear she knows more about me than I know about myself. On the first day of my first class, she gave us a break and a few of us went outside…and had a cigarette. I bummed one. This was the start of a whole new lie. I would go on to become one of her best students. I joined her meditation class as well. The deeper I got into her organization, the more I had to hide my dirty little secret. I became a vegetarian as a result of being in her classes, but I didn’t give up the secret smoking. I just became even more clever in hiding my shame.

So what does all this have to do with my throw down with God? Well, after spending a few years sharing my meditation classes with believers from all faiths including even a Muslim woman from Iran, my Godlessness was getting increasingly uncomfortable for me. Each meditation class ends by sharing tea and our thoughts about our experience or questions we might have. Everyone spoke of God in some form or other—everyone but me. No one judged me, and no one knew that I was squirming through the discussions, oh, and no one knew I smoked either. Around the time I started really struggling with this, I had a dream about God. He appeared in my dream as a young Marlin Brando in a leather jacket and surrounded by the most beautiful light. The sense of that dream stayed with me for many years.

By this time, I was quitting smoking every night and starting again every morning. I never smoked on meditation day for fear that I would be found out by my scary German teacher. I had lived this way for so long, I had no idea how damaging it was to live with this secret shame and not just to my physical health. I wasn’t even aware of it. But I had really had enough of the smoking. As my body and mind became healthier, the smoking was really dragging me down.

One day while driving home from my meditation class, I challenged God. I shook my hand in the air and in a very matter of fact tone said, ‘God, if you are real, and you are so great, then prove it. I want to stop smoking. And I don’t want to deal with any withdrawal bullshit, and I don’t want to miss it or think about it or whine about it. I just want it to be over, forever. HA! Try that one on.’ Then I let out a little maniacal laugh and forgot about the whole thing. And when I got home, I lit a smoke and finished it out on the back porch with a glass of wine.

About three weeks later at meditation class, my teacher announced that class would end early because she was going to see some guru/avatar from India, and we were all welcome to come with her. She remains always neutral on these things with her students. She lets us figure it all out on our own. And she had never met this person, so she was in no position to comment on what we were about to experience. For whatever reason I said sure, and dressed in my sloppy meditation get up, I tripped from one side of the city to the other at 10 o'clock on a weekday night to meet some stranger from India.

To say that I was unprepared for this would be an understatement. I drove into this suburban enclave, dubbed Little India, that was lined with small, neat houses and found the street was filled with parked cars. Fortunately it was a warm night for a short walk. The house was a small, semi-detached house and the front stoop and lawn were littered with hundreds of shoes. It is customary to remove your shoes before entering a Hindu house, so I took mine off and placed them carefully in a spot where I felt they wouldn’t be stolen or shoved aside. (No they don’t steal your shoes at these things, that was just me).

As I went through the door, I entered India. The pooja ceremony was over, and a few remnants were scattered on the makeshift altar. The women were wearing the most beautiful saris and I immediately felt out of place in the ivory-coloured sweat pants and oversized jersey I wore for meditation. But the hosts were most gracious. The buzz was out on this guy and there were many non-Hindus lined up to receive darshan and get a personal meeting and blessing.

Those who attended the pooja earlier were all enjoying the assortment of food that is shared after the ceremony. The food was exotic and foreign. The whole thing was exotic and foreign to me. I stuck it out. I felt like a stranger in my own country. I hugged a wall near the entrance next to one of the other students from my class. A beautiful Indian woman in a burgundy and gold sari explained everything to us and told us what to expect and how to act when it was our turn. Don’t turn your back on Amma, bow when you enter and bow when you leave. Always use your right hand. (In India, the left hand is used for “other” things and thus considered unclean.) As part of the blessing, he will ask you what you want. You can ask for anything, a boat, or a house if you are so inclined, or for something more spiritual. It is entirely up to you.

My turn didn’t come until almost two in the morning. I hugged the wall for over three hours and rehearsed what the woman in the sari told me. I ran through a list of things I should or could ask for. Shouldn’t I just be unselfish and ask for world peace? Nothing felt right. But while I waited, it struck me how much the Hindu people present reminded me of my own family as they walked around with paper plates laden with food, laughing and eating. Food is love, and in that, it is universal.

Finally, it was my turn, and I made my way past everyone and up the stairs. The “meetings” were held in an upstairs bedroom. I was greeted by his devotee helpers who were bare-chested and wore what looked like big tea towels wrapped around their waist. I was in a sleep-deprived daze by this time, and most of what happened from that point forward seemed to occur in a slow-motion haze that lasted only seconds. Somehow I made it through the bow, and I was crouched on the floor in front of a half-naked man swathed in orange robes who sat cross-legged in front of me. After a little small talk, he finally asked me what I wanted. I blurted out “I want to stop smoking.” Oh God! My secret shame was out. I was mortified. Thankfully I was alone with him. He gave me what I gather was the standard blessing, an apple, and a small amount of cum-cum (the red stuff used for the dot on the forehead). He told me to drink it in some water. Uhm, yeah sure, whatever. Bowing ungracefully as I stumbled to my feet, I backed out the door and descended down to join my classmates who had gone before me.

My classmates all had dots of sacred ash on their foreheads. He’d touched them. Not me, I think he even backed away when I asked to stop smoking. I was obviously some sort of smoking failure—unclean. They all appeared sort of happy and content. Not me. I was so out of place with these people – my meditation classmates and these elegant Indian women in saris. I headed for the door, found my shoes amongst the now smaller pile, and started walking towards my car in the wee hours of the morning in a strange neighbourhood far from my home. I retrieved my purse from the trunk and flopped in the car. As I started the engine, a feeling welled up inside of me. I couldn’t stifle it. In seconds I was sobbing. Not little girlie tears, but deep body-wracking sobs. This lasted all the way home. It lasted on and off for days.

When I got home, I looked at the little packet of red cum-cum and realized I had no idea how much or when I was supposed to take this. I decided to split it and take some before bed and the rest the next morning. If I hadn’t been so tired, I might have wondered whether this stuff was toxic. But I didn’t. I checked the kitchen garbage, and the last half pack of cigarettes I’d thrown out when quitting the night before were still sitting on top. Nothing. No feeling about that at all. The next day I ate the apple I’d been given, finished off the red powder, and headed to work. Work was where I smoked with my boss in his office as we shot the shit about our incredible shrinking software company. But I didn’t smoke that day. And I’ve never had another cigarette or another puff of someone else’s cigarette again. I’ve never missed it. I didn’t have any withdrawal or cravings. I didn’t need a patch. Nothing. Each day that followed, I celebrated being smoke-free rather than bemoaning the loss of my old friend.

I didn’t immediately recall my challenge to God. I didn’t think about it until several smoke-free weeks later. Then I looked up and said something like, ‘nice one, well I’ll give you that, but the jury is still out on you, buddy.’ About a year later I had a dream about smoking. I was standing next to someone with a cigarette and I bummed a drag. I leaned into them a little, looked up with a cocked head, and said slyly, ‘God won’t notice.’ My relationship remains testy to this day, and when I challenge God, I still win every time.