Hope That Never Stops Growing

By: Ericka Clay

I wasn’t always so callous to the idea of God or even having faith in Him. In fact, as a child, I remember knowing God was real and felt he heard us when my mom and I would pray for our family and friends at night. But something began to shift in me.

I was raised Roman Catholic, and for those who don’t know, Catholicism tends to be a more formal, tradition-based denomination. And, at least when I was younger, there wasn’t very much encouragement to read Scripture on your own. We did, however, hear short passages from the Old and New Testaments during Mass on Sundays, and I remember when I was around ten, sitting in the pew, hearing about the church in one of Paul’s letters and literally thinking to myself, “Oh, that sounds really great. I wish that’s what church was really like.” Because for me, church had become incense and vestments and a weekly requirement to take the Eucharist and praying the rosary on rotation. And because I’d never asked God to be the Lord and Savior of my life, these things lacked significance for me.

My relationship with God (if you could even say there really was one) began to peter out in middle school. In the sixth grade, I became obsessed with feminism. I requested the works of Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan (both matriarchs of second wave feminism) and had absorbed the book Our Bodies, Ourselves before even hitting high school. 

When I wasn’t worshipping at the altar of feminism, I was doing the same thing with my other favorite idol, modern American consumerism. I was the only child to parents who did well financially and the only grandchild to a set of grandparents who also did well financially. I never heard the word “no,” and spent my youth traveling to Disney World or Mexico or the Caribbean and naturally assumed everyone else did these things, too. Because literally, everyone I was raised with also lived this sort of life. I went to private schools all my life, even attended an all-girls academy where I had to wear a blazer all day long and my only real goal was to be smarter than other people and make sure they knew it. This all ultimately became my undoing. By the age of sixteen, I was severely depressed, anxious, and even at times, suicidal. I was the girl who, from the outside, had it all: the right schools, the Coach bags, the gated community–but on the inside, I was spiritually bankrupt.

My parents weren’t sure where they had gone wrong and have even verbally lamented this to me. But honestly, I don’t blame either of them for my mental and spiritual demise. They have always been so good to me and would throw themselves in front of a moving train in a second to save me. I do believe if we all would have had a better Biblical foundation supporting our faith, that maybe we would have spent less time keeping up with the Joneses and more time keeping up with Jesus. But ultimately, God knew how this story would play out, and not a moment of it has been wasted.

I eventually graduated high school and after several wrong turns like following my boyfriend at the time to college in Massachusetts to then following my parents to Texas to attend school by the ocean (all the while dealing with debilitating depression, anxiety, reclusiveness, body dysmorphia, and exercise bulimia), the next steps in my journey landed me back in Arkansas, a place I had vowed to never return.     

I had enrolled in the Creative Writing department at the University of Arkansas where I met my husband, Matt. Those last two and a half years of my college experience were the most fun I’ve ever had for all the wrong reasons. I had gone from a straight-laced Catholic school girl who was appalled and personally offended to know that some of the people in her high school drank on the weekends to hosting a co-ed sleepover at my sorority while our house mother was out of town only to nearly get kicked out of said sorority. The board ended up only taking away my drinking privileges at our formals because I was the only one who attended the party who came clean about it. But I then decided to quit anyways because doing anything without drinking seemed like a total waste of time at that point. What I thought was me merely being your run of the mill college student, was really becoming a problem, but I couldn’t see it at the time because everyone I knew drank and nobody wanted to hang out with anyone who didn’t. Also, during this time, I was becoming stronger in my feminist ideals and decided to add a few more. I became a strong proponent of gay marriage and the LGBTQIA+ community. I had a very “anything goes” outlook and it made absolutely no sense to me that somebody should get their feelings hurt if I decided to live differently than they did. In my opinion, it was none of their business.

I carried this attitude into my marriage. We had a Catholic wedding and Matt even converted to Catholicism, but we never intended to actually go to church. For us, it was like being a member of a club but not actually deciding to go to any of their meetings. As a married couple, we were best friends, but we both drank heavily every day, which I justified as being a normal routine since we were young, and I was a writer. If Hemmingway had to destroy his liver to write The Sun Also Rises then why did I think I was any different?

I remember during this time most of my energy went into drinking and writing. I was writing the Great American Novel, obviously, and this took precedence over everything. But then I kept getting rejections and decided to have a baby because babies solve everything, right? I feel fortunate to be able to say that I stopped drinking once I knew I was pregnant and truly enjoyed every second of my pregnancy. I loved having a child, and it felt natural to me even though I always thought I’d remain single and an English professor at some small liberal arts college in Massachusetts. But as the days wore on and my daughter grew up, I started drinking again. I started writing again, too. And my only concern was to publish a book and become best friends with Oprah. Everything else was not a major concern.

So, this is the state I was in when we moved to Louisville, Kentucky, and God thankfully wrecked my life. We moved there after selling half of the business we owned with my parents and decided we needed to get a fresh start, not realizing a fresh start begins within and has nothing at all to do with your environment. But we moved anyways to be closer to Matt’s two sisters and their families. One of his sisters, Lindsay, saved my life. She and her husband had recently become Christians, which really grinded my gears. She used to be my fun sister-in-law, the one who drank and did a few other things that I won’t mention here and was always the life of the party. She knew everyone at every bar in Louisville, and it was like being led around by a celebrity whenever we’d go bar hopping downtown. So, it was an affront to my senses when she had traded that kind of life to go to church, which to me meant living a boring and burdened existence. I mean, why would anyone swap freedom for chains?

She, of course, didn’t see it that way and asked us repeatedly to attend church with her. This would of course send me and Matt into a tirade of how asinine it was to be a part of a patriarchal, homophobic organization that told people all the things they couldn’t do and horribly judged them for being human. I also remember arguing that if she’s going to join any Christian religion, she should convert to Catholicism since they had an actual lineage that started with Peter, the first pope. She politely refused my requests and continued attending service at Southeast Christian where Kyle Idleman is now the head pastor.   

So, she spent a good year trying to break down our thick-headed barriers to no avail. Things would have continued on this way until everything took a very dark turn for me. At the time, I religiously practiced yoga. It wasn’t just mere stretching for me. It was very much a spiritual practice that spoke to my sensibilities because it let me be in control of my journey. I had finally landed a literary agent who had helped me find a publisher for my first novel, which is all I ever wanted, but I quickly realized the life of a novice writer is a hard road, and Oprah doesn’t just magically show up on your door step the moment you sign a book deal. Rude. 

Yoga felt like the perfect way for me to unwind and re-center myself, until of course, it wasn’t. One night, I went to bed like any other night. I kissed Matt goodnight and settled in to sleep. Only, I didn’t sleep. All of a sudden, I was awake. I could see everything. My bed, my closet across from my bed, Matt lying next to me. Except I couldn’t speak, nor could I move. I was paralyzed. I remember things getting darker, which is strange because it was already dark. But it was more of a feeling than a visual experience. Suddenly, there was something at the foot of my bed. A demon. I knew it before I understood I knew it. It was something scaly and slow, and it seemed like it was enjoying my torment. I turned to scream and wake up Matt, but I couldn’t do a thing about it. I can’t describe to you my fear. I can hardly describe to you what the thing looked like. I try to remind myself daily of what I saw so I never forget it, but what I do remember is the death-like feeling in my chest and the sudden realization that there was no God in that room. So, I said His name. I said “Jesus,” and it went away. I was able to move. I was able to speak again. I was still terrified.

I kept that first night to myself, chalking it up to bad Mexican food the next day. I reasoned that the “vision” or whatever I had was simply a product of my over-active imagination and a stomach issue. And the only reason it stopped when I said Jesus’s name was because I had cerebrally associated that name with my childhood, a time of fancy and wonder, which helped ease me back to reality. It was fine. I was fine. It was just a fluke, and I’d be back to my old self in no time. Except that it kept happening every night for three months straight. Every evening, complete body paralysis and a different demon. One time, the demon looked like an alien, which is why I wholeheartedly believe anyone who says they’ve seen one. They’ve certainly seen something. It’s just not what they think it is. 

In addition to being invisibly strapped to a bed and gagged while watching the pit of hell dance in front of me in my bedroom, I also had the super neat honor of knowing what it feels like to leave your body. I started to unwillingly astral project at night during this time, meaning I was spinning in circles on the ceiling while my body was on the bed below me. I hated this, but a part of me also enjoyed it because it felt so powerful. During these particular experiences, something was telling me to hurt my husband and my daughter but without saying it in words. That’s when it stopped being fun, and I really had to dig deep on a soul level to keep that feeling from consuming me. Again, I’d say Jesus’s name and it would all go away. Three months of this. It was exhausting.

A couple of weeks into my nightly dance with the devil, our sister-in-law asked, yet again, if we would go to church with her. Guess who didn’t say no this time? I told Matt we should go just to get her off our backs. I’m sure he could infer why I really wanted to go since I had confided in him what was going on at night. I was afraid that I would snap and do something to him or Ava while they were sleeping and wanted him on the ready. I’m sure that would freak out most husbands to learn that their wife wasn’t sure if she could not murder them, but Matt, being the ever logical and analytical human being that he is, took a second, looked to be pondering on it and told me the chances of me actually pulling it off and overpowering him were quite low. That did little to calm my fear, but alas, he tried.

We ended up going one Sunday and the first thing that hit me was that there was a full-on coffee shop in the lobby of Southeast Christian church. I’m not even kidding. In fact, I think it could put Starbucks to shame. At first, I was incensed. I mean, as a Catholic you would never even think of drinking coffee during Mass unless you wanted to be the next in line to be excommunicated. But I quickly forgot my visceral undercurrent of pent-up rage when a caramel macchiato started calling my name. My self-righteous indignation would have to sit this one out.

Steaming coffee in hand, my husband and I followed my sister and brother-in-law to the row where they usually sat. Southeast is a megachurch, and it felt more like I was about to see Britney Spears commence her come back tour than sit through a church service, but very soon, I realized I was indeed in church. When Kyle Idleman gave the sermon on what love really is, my heart began to melt. I didn’t want to admit it, but every word he said that day felt like he had specially handcrafted it for me. 

“So, that was interesting,” Matt had said when the service had ended, and we had picked Ava up from the kids’ wing. 

“Yeah, you know, they’ve asked us so many times now. And we’ve been kind of combative about it. Maybe we just go next week again with them, you know, like to just make sure it counts, and they leave us alone about it.”

“Uhhh...okay?”

Obviously, I didn’t just want to go back. I knew on a very deep level that I needed to go back. I just had a hard time admitting it to anyone, including myself. We ended up going every Sunday. I started to see a change in us, one that I was grateful for. But I was still suffering from demonic attacks at night with no end in sight. Until one particular evening.

One night, before I shut my eyes and the onslaught of terror began again, I gave my life to Jesus. I told Him that I was sorry for everything, that I knew He could save me and that I wanted that very much. I didn’t want to live like I had been living, an existence of darkness and evil hiding in the shadows. I wanted to live in the light.

I closed my eyes, not sure of what would be waiting for me once my lids drew shut. But then I experienced it: my first blissful sleep in months.  

I never had another attack again. Not one. A month later, I was baptized at Southeast. I vividly remember it. I chose a brown t-shirt with the word “free” on it to wear before entering the baptismal pool. I remember the way the water felt, not too warm, not too cold. I remember not being scared or afraid even though I’m naturally an introvert and hate things like public speaking and people looking at me, but I had no fears that day. I felt like I was on a mission. That every moment before this one had led up to this, and I was merely a character playing the part God had written for me. I remember the release of falling backward into the murky waters of my past, my wrong thinking, my poor choices, my defiant behavior, and then the upward thrust of a new beginning, a paradigm shift that rebuilt and renewed the “me” God had originally designed.

I can truly say I’m different now. Vodka is no longer my god nor is the trappings of this world. I pray for discernment every day and the reminder of what life used to be like, so I never walk down that road again. I could spend a whole hour talking about what else God has renewed for us on this journey, but instead, I’ll just leave you with this: you will encounter non-believers as you persevere on the path God’s created for you, and when you do, ask the Holy Spirit what you need to do in that moment. Maybe in that particular instance, they need to see Jesus more than hear about Him. Maybe they just need you to hold their hand. Maybe, they’ll call you a lunatic and laugh in your face. Don’t be undeterred and don’t let your bruised ego respond. Because you never know the unseen battle a person is facing and how the seed you plant in their heart, however small, may break the earth and give birth to a hope that never stops growing.

––––––––

About the Author

Ericka writes raw, real, relatable books that have a heart for Jesus. You can learn more at erickaclay.com.