We are given gifts all the time. Sometimes you are aware when they come along. Other times you fight, ignore or deny them. If you are lucky, the gifts are patient. They wait for you.

One gift was my husband. I knew it the first time I saw him, but it took him longer.

Another was becoming a mime. It was never what I answered when adults asked the annoying "what do you want to be" question. But when discovered, was like breathing.

And there is one that is now the core of my being. It was the hardest to accept because I didn't think I wanted to believe in anything beyond what I could see.

I was the third and last child and only girl. My father was a scientist, my mother a housewife. They were good solid people, depression survivors and Presbyterians. They chose the church because they liked the minister and stayed because it came to feel like “home”. They were like that with furniture too. They determined the best placement for beds, tables, couches and chairs and they remained in those positions for forty years. People who changed furniture around were viewed as unstable and flighty. When I grew strong enough, I changed my room around every season.

We only talked about God  at church. We prayed when one of my grandmothers came for dinner. I figured God had to be annoyed with people always asking Him for things. So when I had a problem, rather than praying for help, I figured He would appreciate my working it out for myself. Then He would like me best. It doesn’t take a session with a therapist to figure out I had transferred my relationship with my parents to God.

I went to Sunday School every week. Each year my mother bought me one Sunday dress. It had to be machine washable. The other girls had a several and they were shiny with ruffles. One girl wore a different fancy dress every Sunday. I had learned not to complain about those kinds of things. The other girls noticed, but because it was church they didn't say anything directly. They enthusiastically complimented each others pretty dresses and glanced silently over mine.

The only Sunday we did not go to church was Easter. My dad could not get his regular parking place because of all the hypocrites coming this one day a year. I was relieved because there was never a new dress bought for Easter either.

I remember very little about what was taught. I can sing a few songs, my favorite being "Jesus Loves Me". No one in my family said "I love you." It's a Scottish thing I think. But at church I was told Jesus loved me, so I loved Him too. And I loved hearing the stories of Jesus. I wanted to hear more. What was He doing between being born in the stable and going to the temple at twelve? Between twelve and looking for His disciples? What did He like to eat? Did He play games or did He just talk to God all day? Did he have any friends? What made Him laugh? Did He ever mess up a miracle?

I was around eight when I understood that He had been killed. I had heard the word "crucified" but I didn't know what it meant. When I did I was shocked. I rarely spoke in my Sunday school class but that day I asked why. Why did they kill Him? My teacher explained that the people were waiting for Him to come, but they expected it to be different. So they didn't know it was Him. I knew He planned to return and the thought seized me that this could happen again. So I asked that question. The teacher's answer terrified me. "Oh no, this time we know how He will come. He will come down on the clouds..." She went on with her explanation but by then I couldn't hear her. My heart was pounding too loud. We were going to miss Him again. Maybe He already had returned. Did we already kill Him? Inside my head I begged God to allow me to recognize Him if I saw Him on the street. It was the only thing I remember being afraid of as a child. That and wasps. But mostly I was afraid I would miss Jesus.

My parents didn't believe in baptizing babies. As a scientist, my father didn't hold with what he considered nonsense. He thought you should be old enough to know what it was you were doing. At age twelve I went to confirmation class to become a member of the church and take communion. Before that I had to be baptized. The day of the baptism I believed I would become a new person. Jesus was going to take away my anger and hateful thoughts. I looked at myself in the mirror before going to church. It was the last time I was going to see that person. After the water was sprinkled I felt happy. I looked at everyone with love in my heart. When I got home I rushed to the mirror to look at my new self. Not much different, but perhaps more twinkling in the eye. A few hours my brother and I got into a huge fight and I hated him more than I ever had in my whole life. I really wanted him dead. My baptism didn't work. Years later a friend told me because I was just sprinkled. I should have been dunked. He had been, but I wasn't so sure it worked on him either. He hated more people than I did. 

In my confirmation classes I discovered that my church believed in things I didn't. One was that there were pre-destined people who would make it into Heaven, regardless of what they did. No one knew who. And some people, no matter how good, would never make it to Heaven. I asked my Dad about this and his response was "You don't have to believe everything the Presbyterians believe to be a member."

By then I  had a growing list of complaints for God. Why wasn't He helping more in the world? If He loves us so much, why does He let us hurt each other? Why was there slavery? And war? Why does He only let Christians into Heaven? Does He really only love Christians? Didn't He make everyone? Why would He love some more than others? I was beginning to think I didn't want anything to do with a God like this. These complaints were never voiced. They were internal conversations. No one at church or home seemed to want to entertain questions about God.

The minister of my childhood committed suicide. My father explained he had cared too much and felt personally responsible for the souls of his congregation. I blamed God for that too.

The minister of my youth ended up in a rehabilitation center that specialized in wayward ministers. This added fuel to my growing cynicism about the church and organized religion.

And then there was the world inside my head, which was where I stayed most of the time. The thought had come to me strongly, that it was my responsibility to bring about world peace. That was another reason I was angry with God. He had given me a really big job and I had no clue how I was going to do this.

When I was around fourteen, I told my parents I wasn't going to church anymore. The Sunday school class was boring. The teacher didn't want to discuss anything. By then I was actually talking and throwing out questions, sometimes just to see how uncomfortable I could make the teacher. My parents said "okay", but had a favor to ask. Some Franciscan Brothers were going to visit the class as a part of the ecumenical movement (a time Protestants and Catholics were seeking to understand each other). The teacher had told my father I was one of the talkative ones, so it would be good if I could be there. My dad suggested the young brothers might be up for answering my questions. I went and found at last people who were willing to hear doubts without judgment. They were also kind of cute.

At that point I was agnostic. Everyone seemed to agree you couldn't prove God's existence. It seemed logical to simply keep the question mark in place until I had proof. It also led to lively discussions with devout classmates who felt it was their duty to make me a believer.

The Franciscan Brothers seemed to enjoy having deep conversations and they cared about human misery, racism, and war. One of the brothers, Brother Benedict, was black and his friendship gave me the courage to take a stand I knew would ostracize me from all of my high school friends. The next year he was transferred to Chicago. He extended an invitation to contact him if I ever was in the city.

I don't know if he really expected me to take him up on his offer. It might have been one of those throw away comments people make. But I was too young to know that people sometimes said those things just to be nice. I wrote him that my high school concert band was doing a tour of the state and would end in Chicago. We had one day where we could go around the city on our own. He wrote back and gave me his phone number to call when I got there.

He and another Franciscan brother picked me up at the downtown hotel. They wore regular street clothes. I didn't know that was allowed. We went to a restaurant and got the cold looks inter-racial friends got in the 60's. We noticed and laughed, knowing what they were thinking.

Brother Ben said he wanted to take me to a special place. We drove along Lake Michigan and through neighborhoods of impressively large houses. He pointed through the windshield above the tree line. A huge decorative dome loomed. This was the Baha'i House of Worship. It was breath taking, literally. I had a dream-like feeling as I approached. It seemed too beautiful and exotic to be in Chicago. Inside it was elegant, and expansive. There were spiritual quotations written above the arches of the doorways. I noticed Brother Ben writing them down in a notebook.

He wanted to go downstairs where there was a bookstore. As we entered the lower level a man stood at the end of a long hallway. As he saw us, his eyes lit up. "Welcome! Welcome!" I felt as if he embraced us, though he kept a respectful distance. This was not the normal greeting I received when I was with black male friends. He directed us to the bookstore. After we passed, I quickly looked back, to see if his expression had changed. I expected a behind the back hateful stare, but he stood smiling, and waved again. As we walked to the bookstore, Brother Ben said "If you ever get over your problem with God, you might want to look at this religion.  The only problem is they have an exact date for the world to end." I stood firm to my agnostic position. Brother Ben laughed and made some purchases. When we left, he handed me a bag. In it were some postcards of the House of Worship and small book about the faith. He grinned. "It's a present from me. And the Pope."

We made it back to the hotel as the bus was loading. There were more than a few questioning looks as I hugged my friends good-bye. On the way back, a seven hour drive, all I could talk about was the House of Worship. People thought I was crazy which was nothing unusual. As I dozed off to sleep I dreamt of the House of Worship. When I got home both brothers were there on Spring Break. I told them about the temple and shared the postcards and book. When my oldest brother, John, returned to college he looked up the Baha'is and joined in a few months. My mother locked herself in the bathroom and cried. My father said, "It's not Christian." I responded with what little knowledge I had. They do believe in Jesus. But they also believe in Buddha, and Muhammad and somebody new. And they know when the world will end." This wasn't helpful.

I was still working at being agnostic, but could feel myself slipping. Every time I vocalized doubt of the existence of God, I silently whispered "I'm sorry".

I also was trying to figure out how I was going to bring peace to the world. I felt at a loss. It was the late 60's and the peace movement was in full swing. There were a handful of hippies in my town, and I was one of them. These were my friends, but I couldn't see any of us overthrowing the government and if we did, I had no idea what we would do with it.

I went to college and found more hippies. There were a few that seemed serious. But most liked the "social" aspects. I knew one hippie friend, Vernon, from my hometown.  I called and he invited me to over. He said it was perfect timing. I walked in on a meeting. The apparent leader of the group voiced concern at my presence, but Vernon vouched for me. The leader continued his talk to the group. He hated "bleeding heart liberals" who said they wanted peace, but weren't willing to die for it. He looked in my direction. I discovered the purpose of the meeting was to plan bomb sites on campus. I tried to act as if this was normal. I soon learned all of them were drop outs from the university. I was the only enrolled student. The leader asked if I could be the inside person. I said something like "Sure, let me know what and when. Sorry I can't stay now, but gotta get to the library." I avoided phone calls from Vernon and if I saw any of the people from the meeting hanging around the college, I hid.

I went to a peace rally on campus. I scanned the crowd and did not see Vernon and friends. It was a beautiful day. A few students had spoken and energized the crowd. I felt hopeful. These were people who cared about what I did. A Political Science professor was the next speaker. His words stunned the crowd. "President Nixon will go down in history as one of our greatest and most courageous presidents..." He continued to speak but couldn't be heard. The crowd began to boo and scream and throw whatever they could find. I joined in the booing and hissing. An organizer approached him and tried to get him away from the microphone. They were shouting at each other. The organizer then stopped and turned to the crowd motioning us to calm down. That took awhile. The professor resumed "For the record I do not support Richard Nixon. But if I did, you would have deprived me of my right of speech, a right you claim the Establishment denies to you. Should you get into power, what will you do? What will really change?" My question exactly. I felt ashamed that I had followed without thinking.

I left the rally and on the way home had a realization. Religion could be used to bring about world peace. I didn't have to believe in God. Maybe this was the real reason for religion. It could be used to control the masses. But it could be used in a good way. I called Roger, brother #2. We were close and often shared our moments of insight. He was also an agnostic. Amazingly he had come to the same conclusion. We made our plans to infiltrate and revolutionize Christianity on our winter break.

Our oldest brother, John, was also home on winter break. Since becoming a Baha'i he was nicer to me and I went to some of the meetings. I liked the people. They were kind and sincere. But I saw a major problem. This was a more up close and personal religion. I didn't think I would be able to fake a belief in God around them.

One day during the break, John asked me what were my core beliefs. What mattered most to me?

I could sense it was a trap, but I jumped in anyway.

I said we needed to give full civil rights to all people not just through the laws, but our hearts and rid ourselves of racism and prejudice. My brother's response was Baha'u'llah (The prophet and founder of the Baha'i Faith) said there is only one race-human. "Know ye not why we have created you all from the same substance? That no one should exalt himself over the other..."

I said I believed men and women were equal- He said Baha'u'llah said humanity is like the two wings of the bird. One wing is woman the other man. Both need to be strong for the bird to fly.

I said I believed science should be respected. He said Baha'u'llah said religion needed science to counter superstition and science needed a moral compass and be beneficial to humanity.

I said I believed I was a world citizen. Baha'u'llah said "The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens."

I said I didn't want a minister to tell me what to think. Baha'u'llah said we don't need clergy now. We need universal education and people can read the sacred Writings for themselves . That's one of the reasons He was imprisoned for over 40 years. The Islamic Clergy were threatened.

I gave my final zinger. I don't believe in God. My brother said we don't believe in the God you and I were taught as kids either.

With every answer I gave, my brother provided a quote in agreement from Baha'u'llah, only stated more eloquently.

I got angry. I finally said "Well I thought all this up myself, so I don't need your Baha'u'llah!"

There are words that when spoken suspend in the air. We both sat silenced. My brother left my room. I sat fighting back tears and inside my head I screamed and cried "I am sorry. I am so, so sorry." To speak the name Baha'u'llah in anger pierced my heart. I couldn't articulate at the time why, but it was then that my soul knew. My mind needed a few more nudges.

That spring, an old friend named Jeff was in the lobby of my dorm. His back was turned away from me, and I could have easily slipped past him. But the "inside my head" voice told me I needed to be nice. I had known Jeff for years. First, he was in my brother's Explorer Post. He was mean and too serious. Next we were both in the High School Rifle Club. I joined to meet boys. I double dated with him once. My date was extremely shy and wouldn't talk. His date kept a pet mouse in her bra who would come out and nibble her food, then go back "home". She also spoke in an English accent even though her family had lived in the midwest for generations. Jeff and I argued the whole night about the Vietnam War. He supported it. Next I saw him at a hippie coffee shop on a bad acid trip. He wanted me to jump on the back of him motorcycle with him and fly off the limestone cliffs. We managed to talk him "down". The last time I saw him, our bomb friend Vernon brought him by my dorm hoping I could hide him in my closet because he was AWOL.

I tapped Jeff on the shoulder, not knowing who to expect, but knowing it would be interesting. He smiled deeply and looked into my eyes. "The most wonderful thing has happened. I am a Baha'i." I could not believe it. I made some kind of annoyed face. "Yeah, I know about it. My brother John is too." He asked me if I wanted to go to a meeting that Saturday. I told him no. He picked me up in his arms and started spinning me around. "I'll not let you down until you promise you'll come." I finally yelled out "OK!" The meeting was far from campus, so someone with a car would come by at 7:00.

The rest of the week I dreaded it. Friends told me not to show up, but at 7:00 I was there in the lobby waiting. By 7:10 no one had shone up and I could have left and not felt guilty. At 7:40 I admitted to myself I really wanted to go to this meeting. I felt tears coming on. Maybe God was done with me. I was about to go upstairs when a young man rushed in. I was the only one in the lobby. "Are you Jeff's friend? I am so sorry..." I don't remember his explanation. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. It was another gift from the Universe to tell my mind what my heart already knew.

It still took a few months to make it "official". My second brother decided he was going to become a Baha'i but talked to our parents first in an attempt to help them understand. They didn't. But it was a nice gesture. I decided to let that settle a bit before I broke their heart for the third time. But they were expecting it.

I hated that it appeared I was just following my brothers. But that wasn't important. I knew what this was. It was what I had been searching for all along. It just took some time to recognize it.

I went to a Baha'i gathering on October 10, 1971 and announced that I wanted to be a Baha'i. At the gathering there was a cake, to celebrate my future husband's birthday which was the next day. Every year I celebrate both.

That night I walked home by myself. It had been raining and there was a huge puddle in an empty parking lot. I began to dance in the puddle. I spun around and around and laughed out loud and shouted out "Thank you!" If there was ever a movie made of my life, it would make a nice scene.

It took a couple months for me to realize that my childhood prayer had been answered. Jesus did return. And not in the way expected. His new name is Baha'u'llah and because he lived in the 1800's when histories were recorded, there were more stories about Him than I could read in a lifetime. I know he loved the nature. I know what made Him laugh. I know of the tortures He suffered. I know that even though a prisoner for over forty years because of His claim, His guards asked His permission to enter His cell and would not raise their eyes to His.

Baha'u'llah was a revolutionary. (So was Buddah, and Christ and Muhammad, etc.) Baha'u'llah wrote over 100 volumes of instructions on how to spiritually revitalize the planet to achieve world peace. I was relieved to learn it is a shared responsibility.

One thing Brother Benedict told me was wrong. The Baha'is do not have a date the world will end. Just the opposite. We envision a future world becoming just what Jesus taught...a kingdom of God on Earth. It's just that we are the ones that have to do the work to make it happen. And if you ever hear rumors that there is a whale we worship in the basement of the temple...that one isn't true either.

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My brother, John, is also a blogger here at OS. This encouraged him to write his own story... here it is (it is long, but not quite as long as mine)

http://open.salon.com/blog/moviegeekjn/2010/02/22/searching_for_sensibility