Nowhere but Up by Pattie Mallette, with A. J. Gregory Page A

exchanged like a ball in a Ping-Pong match. At one point I got in my mom’s face, my small features contorting with rage. It was too close for comfort. She took a step back and slapped me. The blow made me even more livid, and I threatened to call the cops. I even grabbed the telephone and with a menacing look on my face yelled, “That’s it, I’m dialing!”
    My mother wasn’t one to back down. She called my bluff and grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me toward the front door. “I have a better idea. I’ll take you down to the police station myself.” And she did.
    Down at the station, I had a sit-down with one of the police officers. He talked to me about the importance of respecting my parents, respecting myself, and getting good grades. He was nice, though I can’t say his talk made me change my ways or even scared me, as my mother had probably intended.
    That was my first experience with the police, but it wouldn’t be my last. It wasn’t too long before the police started showing up at my house when things like car stereos went missing. They knew the kind of friends I hung out with and the kind of stuff we did.
    My mother and I had such a volatile relationship that we tried counseling a few times. I loved those meetings. I was able to talk to my mom about how I really felt with the support of a therapist. I also felt defended when the counselor would call my mom out on a few things. Of course, she also did the same with me. It was clear that my mom and I both had our issues, which made it difficult for us to relate. And while counseling didn’t lessen the tension between us, at the very least it gave me an outlet.

    I used to love visiting our neighbors next door because being in their company brought me a sense of comfort I needed at the time. It was a respite from the drama at home. They were Christian people, or as my mom liked to call them, “religious folk.”
    Though Mom would roll her eyes at their Jesus talk, I didn’t mind hearing them talk about God. I was intrigued by the Bible verses that hung on their walls. I asked questions. I wanted to know what the verses meant, what the Bible was about. This couple embraced my curiosity and never hesitated to spend time sharing with me what they knew. They also often prayed for my family and me, prayers I have no doubt made an impact on where I am today.
    But despite the testimonies of this couple, I had no real personal connection to God. He wasn’t on my radar outside of the kind of desperate prayers we pray when we’re at the end of our rope. Like the times when I was drunk to the point of being violently sick. As I’d puke my guts out into the toilet, I’d cling to my porcelain friend for dear life. “God,” I’d cry out as my insides felt they were being mashed through a meat grinder. “If You make me feel better, I promise I’ll never drink or do drugs again.” I can’t tell you how many times I found myself in front of a toilet bowl, sick as a dog, convinced I had alcohol poisoning. And I repeated these prayers more times than I can count.
    Of course, I felt better eventually. But I never stopped drinking or using drugs. Were those prayers simply a desperate measure for a desperate time? Mostly, they probably were. But I also think I held on to an iota of hope that God was real. That He existed. That far beyond the four walls of the bathroom where I was disgustingly sick, there was Someone out there. Someone who even actually cared.
    I do believe that the bits and pieces of faith I picked up along the way, however small, made lasting impressions on my heart. Though invisible to the naked eye, God left behind His fingerprints, evidence that He was there. That He was real. But I didn’t know that then. I only knew pain and emptiness.
    I hadn’t a clue what God was like. Without a spiritual foundation, I imagined Him to be someone He is not. I forged an image based on lies. I didn’t know any better. When God is referred to as a heavenly