Stop Being Mean to Yourself: A Story About Finding the True Meaning of Self-Love (16 page)

"This picture represents Egyptian mythology about life after death and how one enters paradise," he said. "When you die, you go before a council. At that time, your heart is removed and placed on one of the pans of a balancing scale. A feather is placed in the other pan. If your heart weighs the same as or less than a feather, you are allowed to enter paradise. If not," he said, scowling and shaking his head, ''your heart is fed to the dragons."

I studied the long, narrow drawing. Now that he had

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explained the story, I could see it clearly. All four scenes were there: a figure sitting before the council, this same figure standing next to the balancing scales, this figure being led to a door, and finally the ornate room representing paradise.

For thousands of years, this ancient culture had known what it had taken me most of my life to understand.

When I was twelve years old
,
I already had a burgeoning problem with alcohol
.
From the first time I sneaked a drink from the bottle of Jack Daniels
stashed in the back of the cupboard underneath the kitchen sink
,
I had a problem although I didn
'
t see it as a problem at the time
.
All I could see was that I
loved the warm tingling glow as the fiery juice slipped down my throat and kicked into my stomach
.

It felt good
.

This particular summer
,
I was headed to a Baptist Bible camp in northern Minnesota
.
I had attended this camp before
.
These people were serious
:
they
meant business
:
it was more Bible than camp
.
But this summer I would be prepared
.
I carefully filled seven tiny perfume bottles
—
one for each day of the
week
—
with whiskey
.
Then I tucked the bottles into my rolled
up socks and carefully stashed them in my suitcase
.

I breezed through the first two days of camp
.
I had to attend
,
as all participants did
,
many church services and lectures
.
But I also had the comfort of the
sun
,
the fresh air
,
the lake
,
the boats
,
the swimming
—
and my seven perfume bottles filled
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with Jack Daniels
.
On the third day of camp
,
while I was dutifully building a Popsicle
stick house during arts and crafts
,
two senior camp counselors
approached me
.
They hovered over me
,
giving me that look
.
Then
,
they showed me the perfume bottles they had confiscated from my room
.
I instantly
knew the party was over
.

The counselors marched me to a sink and forced me to watch while they poured my whiskey down the drain
.
Then they led me into a small room
,
a room
way too small for three people to be in I thought at the time
.
We sat in a circle on metal folding chairs
.
With great solemnity
,
the counselors informed me
that they were extremely disappointed in me
.
That wasn
'
t news
.
I was extremely disappointed in myself too
.
I had been for a long time
.
Then they gave me
the Coming to Jesus Option
.
They felt
,
they said
,
obligated to telephone my mother immediately and inform her of this serious and flagrant violation of
camp rules
.
However
,
they also saw fit to give me a loophole
.
If I were willing to march to the altar during a special church service
—
in front of all my
junior
high peers
—
get down on my knees
,
confess my sins
,
and let Jesus come into my heart
,
they wouldn
'
t feel quite so obligated to call my mother
.

''
Okay
,"
I said
.
"
I
'
ll do it
."
Even though I had to do this in front of my peers
,
facing the wrath of God seemed more palatable and less frightening than facing
my mother
'
s ire
.
A quick shake of the dice told me God would be more forgiving
.

At church service that afternoon
,
I slunk up to the altar
,

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knelt
,
and was saved
.
I asked Jesus to come into my heart
.
I said how sorry I was for all the things I had done
.
In retrospect
,
I think what I regretted most
was that I had been caught
.

Everyone cheered and clapped for me
.
We sang
"
What a Friend We Have in Jesus
"
and
"
For God So Loved the World
.
"
Then we made big posters out of
colored construction paper that boldly announced
"
JESUS IS IN YOUR HEART
.''

We were all so happy that afternoon
.
The counselors rejoiced for the lost soul they had led to salvation
.
The other children were delighted
(
probably
because it was me and not them who had been caught
).
And I was happy
,
too
.

Mother wasn
'
t called
.

We did a repeat performance
,
including another trip to the altar
,
along with the singing
,
the cheering
,
and the poster making
,
the following day
.
The
counselors wanted to make sure the experience
"
took
."
I left camp that year feeling good
.
But it didn
'
t have the impact everyone hoped for
.
The moment I
returned home
,
I headed straightaway for the cupboard under the kitchen sink and that bottle of Jack Daniels
.

Ten years would pass before I would find my way into chemical dependency treatment and the Twelve Step program that ultimately saved my life
.
And
thirty
five years would elapse from the time I made the poster proclaiming Jesus Was in My Heart before I would understand what those colorful words I
cut and pasted that day really meant
.

For most of the years of my life
,
I thought they meant I had

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to jam a porcelain statue of Jesus into my heart
.
Although I considered myself a Christian
,
that vision didn
'
t work for me
.
It didn
'
t make sense
.

Then
,
on my trip through the western United States in 1995
,
I wandered into the Sanctuario de Chimayo
.
The Sanctuario is a New Mexican church rich in
folklore about the healing powers of the ground beneath its foundation
.
This dirt
,
this earth
,
is said to be sacred and holy
,
containing powers similar to that
of the water in Lourdes
.
Crutches line the walls in the back room of the church
,
physical evidence of the healing miracles that have supposedly occurred
here
.
Daily
,
for almost two weeks
,
I watched people walk
,
limp
,
and sometimes be carried into this church
.

In the Sanctuario where so many flocked for a miracle
,
I
,
too
,
saw a flash of light
.
I finally understood what it meant to have Jesus in your heart
.
Whether
they had known it or not
,
those well
intentioned
,
hand
wringing
,
soul
saving camp counselors from northern Minnesota were talking about the value and
importance of each of our hearts
.
Hallelujah
!
I didn
'
t have to keep trying to jam that porcelain statue into my chest anymore
.

"
It takes a lot to get out of bed each day and live life with passion and an open heart
,"
Nichole said one day shortly before I left on this trip to the Middle
East
.

"
Yes
,
it does
,"
I agreed
.
"
It certainly does
."

They were all talking about the same thing
—
the camp

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counselors
,
my daughter
,
and now in the Nile River Papyrus shop
,
this intricate Egyptian picture hanging on the wall
.

An open heart is as light as or lighter than a feather
.
And Jesus is in that heart
.

"I'll take that one," I said, pointing to the picture about paradise.

I continued to look around the store. It took me only moments to spot it. It looked almost like a Celtic cross. It was gold. The top was rounded. A crossbar ran through the middle. On closer inspection, I saw that it was a key.

"What's that?" I asked.

"It's an ancient Egyptian symbol," the shopkeeper said. "The ankh. It's the key to power in this world."

The merchant took the simple painting off the wall, and I held it in my hand.

I was right
.
There was a key to power and life
.
I had suspected it all along
.
The Egyptians had known it for five thousand years
.
Maybe that was the reason
for the camels
'
mysterious smiles
.
But my friend had been right
,
too
.
It wasn
'
t really a secret and it wasn
'
t out of reach
.

The key to power wasn
'
t in all the things I had done
,
the people I had talked to
,
the crystals on my desk
,
or the books on my shelves
.

I had held it in my hand all the time
.
It
'
s where all the hard work and all my endeavors had led
.

The key to life and power is simple
.
It
'
s knowing who we

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are
.
It
'
s knowing what we think
,
what we feel
,
what we believe
,
what we know
,
and even what we sense
.
It
'
s understanding where we
'
ve been
,
where we
are
,
and where we want to go
.
That
'
s often different from who we think we should be
,
from who others want us to be
,
tell us to be
,
and sometimes even tell
us we are
.

There are many drugs that can injure the body and deaden the soul
—
cocaine
,
alcohol
,
heroin
,
marijuana
.
But there are other drugs whose narcotic power
we overlook
.
Disillusionment and betrayal can grind away at our souls until all our faith and hope are gone
.
The cumulative effect of a lifetime of
disappointments can leave us confused
,
lost
,
and dulled
.
Whether it happens in one moment or over many years
,
losing faith deadens the spirit like a
syringe filled with heroin or a line of coke
.
The most debilitating drug on this planet besides losing faith in God is when we stop believing in ourselves
.

"I'll take it," I said. "I've been looking for that for a long time."

Shortly after I paid for my pictures, half price, Essam returned to the store. We had a quiet afternoon, sitting in the sandlot, watching an Egyptian version of
Candid
Camera
,
the famous old television show. Then I went to my hotel. I wanted to get a good night's rest. Tomorrow I was going into the pyramids of Giza.

Today, I had found the key to power in this life and in this world. Now I was ready to get my "special powers."

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I stopped talking and glared at the deceptively innocent looking female torturing me at the airport in Tel Aviv.

She wasn't intimidated.

"Show me the rest of your notes," she said.