Would you believe me if I told you my life was completely turned around by a group of college students from halfway across the country? That even though I never even got to learn their names, I will always remember the crucial role they played in my life? That in less than ten minutes they gave me the hope I desperately needed in my darkest hour?
Four years ago, March 11th 2011, I went to chapel at Roberts Wesleyan. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that – I had probably gone to chapel a dozen times by that point in the semester – but a few things weren’t as normal as that. It was Friday, and I rarely went to chapel on Fridays. I chose a seat at the front of the auditorium, while I usually picked one near the back (closer to the door so I could bolt out of there and avoid the dining hall-rush afterwards – we’ve all done it. If you go to Roberts don’t pretend you haven’t…)
But there I was, and so were the presenters for that particular chapel. Rather than one speaker, this was a small theatre troupe from a college in Iowa – a professor and seven students. They were going to do something called “enacted prayer,” where they would listen to a prayer request, then act it out. Four of the students would play real people from the request or possibly an abstract concept, and remaining three would portray “God at Work.”
I watched as the professor took volunteers from the audience and listened to the prayer requests. For the earthquake in Japan. For a Roberts professor suffering from chronic pain. For someone’s friend who had cancer. The theatre troupe would take only a brief moment to discuss it, and then act it out in pantomime.
It was incredible. From a theatre perspective, this was improvisation to a crazy new level. How were they doing this? It was done so well, with such expression and tact. There were no words, and yet it didn’t need any.
After the three requests had been done, the professor looked at the clock – it was near the end of chapel. And then he said “we have time for one more.” Before I knew what was happening, my hand was up in the air. We briefly made eye contact, and he came to where I was sitting.
Wait. How did I get here? Why does this matter?
My freshman year of college didn’t start out well. I was having a hard time adjusting to school and having an identity crisis about my choice of major. I was unhappy, confused, and slowly sinking into a depressive state. This was nothing compared to what happened in mid-November. One Thursday morning, I checked my Facebook and learned that my close friend and mentor, Anne Jackson, had passed away the night before. Anne was a cross-country runner and had collapsed at practice out of nowhere from sudden cardiac arrest. I was devastated. No. Scratch that – I can’t think of a word in the English language (or any other language for that matter) that accurately described what I was feeling.
Anne was one of the kindest people I had ever known, a loyal friend to me, and an unshakeable woman of God. Her death shook me to the core – my mind couldn’t begin to fathom why someone as incredible as her would have her life cut short at 21. I had no idea how to handle the grief, and instead of seeking help, I foolishly cut myself off from my classmates, spending most of my time alone. Everything seemed to move more slowly, my grades slipped, and it was a struggle to get out of of bed in the morning – I had to drop one of my classes because I had missed it so many times that I didn’t have a hope of passing. I lost interest in everything that had been important to me, and gave up on practicing for my music lessons altogether. Nothing was able to snap me out of the fog I was in.
I wanted to be angry about what happened, but the problem was that I had nothing or no one to be angry at. This wasn’t like an accident, where there could have been another person or factor to blame. So I became angry at God. I wanted answers. Like if he was as really as “good,” or “just,” or “righteous” as he was supposed to be, why did things like this happen? Where was he when I was in pain? I had heard of people losing their faith or becoming cynical after a major loss, but I never thought it would happen to me.
Until it did. I would go to chapel and sit in silence while everyone sang worship songs about how amazing God was. I would listen to speakers read scripture and think to myself “why does this even matter?” I would internally roll my eyes when my womens’ choir director would pray before rehearsal. Nothing about this religion thing made sense to me anymore. It all seemed like false hope that fell apart as soon as something went wrong.
So I gave up. I stopped praying, and I let my bible collect dust. I skipped church stayed in bed until mid-afternoon every Sunday. My mindset got worse and worse, to the point where it was an accomplishment if I made it through a day without a meltdown of some kind. I looked into transferring out of Roberts and changing my major, but I didn’t know to where or to what – I just wanted to get out.
Somehow I knew I had hit my low point when I confessed to a friend “I don’t think I believe in God anymore.” I was completely alone, even when I was surrounded by people, and I couldn’t see my life ever getting any better. So I kept moving through each day in my robotic state, simply doing the bare minimum to get by. That meant I was still going to chapel, no matter how much I didn’t want to be there.
…And then he said “we have time for one more.” Before I knew what was happening, my hand was up in the air. We briefly made eye contact, and he came to where I was sitting.
(Side note: I was taking a theatre class at the time, and this theatre group had done a workshop with my class. The professor must have recognized me, because I can’t have been the only one raising my hand. I almost dropped that class multiple times. I almost couldn’t take it in the first place. Everything lined up.)
He asked me what my prayer request was, and although I tried to be a little vague at first, he gently asked a few questions that had me give more details. I had been quiet about what had happened – I didn’t even tell my roommate – and had been so reclusive all semester that I myself was shocked. I was now spilling my guts to an auditorium full of people, and publicly telling my conservative Christian college that I had serious doubts about God. It was all out on the table now.
When they seemed to have heard all they needed to, the seven students in the theatre troupe cast themselves as characters in the story they had just heard. A girl wearing a pink hoodie would play me, while a tall guy with long-ish blond hair would play Doubt. Three others designated themselves as God at Work, another girl would be Anne, and the last girl in the troupe decided to be a slightly ambiguous person who would represent someone who could help me. They could be a friend, a teacher, or a church leader – at the end it was really up to me who they were.
The seven of them had a brief private discussion that lasted less than a minute. They told the professor they were ready, the music began, and I watched the scene played out before my eyes.
I knew this was going to get emotional, and it was strange to see someone onstage as me, but within the first few seconds I was in tears. Nothing prepared me for seeing a fictionalized portrayal of my friend’s death played out in front of me.
Anne collapses, I fall to my knees in despair. God at Work comes to my side, but Doubt creeps in and pulls me away. I manage to fend off Doubt briefly, but he returns to attack again. God at Work guides a friend to me, but I turn away.
After four years some of the details have faded, but the important ones are still there.
Finally, in the last moments, as Doubt returns to terrorize me again, God at Work side-arms Doubt and sends him flying to the side. God at Work shields me from Doubt, who eventually gives up. I finally stop fighting and allow God to embrace me.
Meanwhile, back in my seat in the auditorium, I’ve completely lost it. A classmate and another girl I sort of knew from the music department have come to my side at some point during all of this and hadn’t left. As chapel ended everyone else in the auditorium started to make their way out, I lingered behind.
I was dumbstruck. The way everything had lined up the way it did couldn’t have been a coincidence. I had to have had at least some lingering faith, or otherwise I never would have raised my hand at all. As I was mentally reviewing what I had just seen, I realized that I finally had some answers to my ongoing questions of where God was during the past months of misery I was suffering through. With Anne when she died. With me when I heard the news. Fending off demons when I struggled to make it through an ordinary day. Providing me with friends who never gave up on me, even when I wasn’t easy to be around.
God was there, even when my stubborn, confused mind couldn’t see that. That day all I wanted was for him to take me back. And somehow I knew he would. It’s not as if things were perfect from that moment forward, but it was a start on the road home. It may have taken seven strangers to show me that there was hope, but I got my life back that day.
