Geri Moore

By Geri Moore
Special to the Independent

Drained from three consecutive nights of crying my eyes out and as many days of skipping meals, I popped into St. Stephen’s to rest. Hide actually. I’d been dumped recently and didn’t want to be around the eyes, smiles, talks and walks that, until a week ago, made the stroll through Boston’s North End such a joy.

My desperation to be unseen resulted in breaking a twenty-four year promise to myself. I vowed to never set foot in a Catholic church again at age 22! As I sat in the wooden pew and viewed the crucifix, stations of the cross and statues of saints, a montage of buried, school-girl memories surfaced. None of them happy or comforting.

This spiritual slide-show prompted a silent conversation with the Guy whose house it was. Actually, more like an interrogation. Heavy on the sarcasm. “If you do exist, God, why would you give me intelligence and attractiveness and keep love from me?” “How come at 46, Lord God, I’ve never experienced a healthy, happy, romantic relationship?” “And another thing, God, why did my parents — church-going, receive-communion Catholics — cut me out of their lives, even though I got sober and straightened up my act?”

Well, so much for the idea of using the quiet of the church to rest and regroup. This loud internal rant and rave, a temper tantrum to the trinities ( Jesus, Mary and Joseph; Father, Son and Holy Ghost) was exhausting. I was surprised by the rage inside of me. Feeling worse than when I came in, I dragged myself towards the door.

As I got up to leave, a paper with large purple swirls caught my eye. The mesmerizing circles of soft lavender and deep plum drew me to an 11x16 poster. When I got up close and read the words entwined within the wide brush strokes of this royal color, I felt better. Not physically better because my body responded with chills, goose bumps, wobbly knees, dry throat and hot tears. But in the area of my heart, I felt something. Something better. I didn’t know, though, what the emotion was. Love? Hope? I just knew that the weakened physical reactions strengthened me. It was just a spark, but I felt it. Really, really felt it.

With my blurred, teary vision, I read “Embrace in Good’s tender mercies and forgiveness.” I read “Goods,” but I realized later it actually said, “God‘s.” The next line “Healing from the trauma of abortion” had my heart skip a beat and then some. This was a mini-answer to the angry “Why me, God?” hissy-fit mentally spewed only minutes ago. It was a genuine “aha” moment!

Like a TV show, returning after a commercial break, the previous St. Clare School girl memories now continued into scenes from my 20-something life. Fragmented, painful recollections. As my mind’s eye played out images of that long-ago time and my ears reverberated with the recent tirade directed to God, an awareness and connection deepened. I gave myself empathy for the pain. That was feeling around my heart. Empathy for the broken 22 year old, who was still with me today.

Yes! After the abortion, I changed drastically. And not for the better. No one ever said anything about it being a trauma or the need for healing. This was revelation to me. An epiphany! Way back then, the response was for family to disown and church to excommunicate.

The lethargy that led me through the church door was now replaced with a heightened fright that energized me. The expression “scared silly” popped in my head, as I nervously giggled and felt anticipation and excitement.
I raced past the patisseries and espresso shops of Hanover Street knowing that something enormous and good had just taken place. Some would call this a spiritual awakening. Certainly a Spirit woke up within me. I thought to myself, “I have the chance for a “do over.” And this time, I didn‘t have to “get over” something by becoming a drunk, druggie, liar and thief. I had 11 years without drugs and alcohol, but four years previous had gone back to champagne and cocaine. However, on this very day, I was nine months clean and sober.

Within days I began a ten-month, intensive counseling journey with Fr. Sam and Michael Elkins. One a Catholic priest with Project Rachel, the other a Massachusetts Department of Correction prison psychologist, who was also a student of A Course In Miracles. Both were wonder-full spiritual guides for my healing journey. Experts in the “do over.” Loving examples of mercy, tenderness, compassion, communication and forgiveness.

Fourteen years later, as age and life unfolds, I do, from time to time, have those same awful feelings of being broken, abandoned, lost, and frightened. I sometimes still rant, rave, cry, vent — to myself, my husband, the Universe and anyone else who’ll listen. But, then I catch myself. Reframe. Remember back to that freeing day in the North End of Boston. I now know that being this raw and having the emotional boo-hoo is preparing the way for yet another spiritual “aha.” Questions that hurt tell me it’s time for another “do over.” Thank Go(o)d!

Geri Moore is a former addictions counselor who now specializes in relationship coaching for mid and later life women. Geri coaches and presents seminars on issues of: addiction, trauma, transition, alternative recovery options and relationships, and she offers free coaching sessions to former female inmates and/or ex-offenders. Moore can be reached at (505)722-5412 or gerimoore@aol.com.

This column is written by area residents, representing different faith communities, who share their ideas about bringing a spiritual perspective into our daily lives and community issues.

For information about contributing a guest column, contact Elizabeth Hardin-Burrola at The Independent: (505) 863-6811 ext. 218 or lizreligion01@yahoo.com.