I was hungry for understanding and knowledge. Books were scattered everywhere in our house. Books were in the bathroom, living room, dining room, bedroom, and in the kitchen. As I sat down that night to let the pills lead me into death, I simply reached over and grabbed the book lying face down on the table. I wanted to numb my mind until the medication took effect. As I turned over the book, a new surge of anger rushed through me. The name of the book was Father Hunger, by Robert S. McGee.

Earlier in the week I was listening to the radio as I straightened up the kitchen. The talk show host was talking to a guest on the air. They were talking about father hunger. He shared his observation of people with this "disorder" and how they usually had a problem with people in authority.

I remember thinking to myself, "Wow, this is it. This is why I am having a problem with the pastor and Minister of Music. I have a problem with authority because my Dad left me!" I hurriedly dialed the number to the station knowing I would receive the answer to all my problems in one phone call. I impatiently sat anticipating what he would say to me. Then there was the familiar click and I was on the air.

The host said, "Let's go to the phone line and talk with Sharon from Gardendale." It was my turn and I could not think of anything to say. I mumbled something about the lack of acceptance I received at church from my pastor and the church staff. The man responded with words. He said I should talk to them about it openly and honestly. "Well, I thought, "That would be nice, but with them it is impossible." Lately they vanished into thin air when they saw me coming.

Changes in the church staff were taking place weekly, or so it seemed. The Pastor was bringing on his friends and letting others go. Early in the Pastor's ministry at our church, I wrote him and shared with him a vision I received during my quiet time. In 1986-87, I was Director of Lay Ministries at a church in Gadsden, Alabama. I enjoyed the job of encouraging members to be more active. Some of the jobs were as simple as calling the elder members every couple of days to check on them. There was also a lay counseling program I was involved in. This took some of the burden off the pastoral staff. I believed this would help my current Pastor and church immensely.

I never received a response. Once I approached him about it and was told there was no room on the staff for another person. Three months later he brought on his friend. I was crushed.

The only staff person who talked with Roger and me during our hard times with his children was the Associate Pastor. He was always available for us, whether we simply needed prayer, or someone to talk to. Now, he was gone. His duties were changed once the new man was on board. I saw his frustration and hurt for him.

I gave up my Sunday School class because of my attitude toward the staff. I could not teach with such anger in my heart. There was a fear of my attitude affecting theirs. Besides, how could I speak of God's love with such animosity inside me?

These thoughts consumed me as I went to church that Sunday night. I went with an attitude of expectant forgiveness. I knew I needed a change of heart. Walking across the room, headed for my regular seat, the pastor stopped me. He told me he heard me on the radio Friday, but did not hear what the topic was. I was astounded. How could he hear and not know what was said? I felt humiliated and lied to. I was so angry I could not concentrate on the service. A rage began boiling in me that I was unable to contain.

So, as I turned the book over and saw the title I knew the choice was right. I could no longer live this way. The rejection was more than I could live with. I never knew the love and acceptance of a father. Now, the ministers, the representatives of God the Father, wanted nothing to do with me. My stepdad was unapproachable too. Apparently, I was a horrible person and I wanted to die -- quickly. In my heart I felt everyone, including the church, would be better off if I died. Maybe the anger and the patterns of abuse in my family would die with me.

It was then I remembered the unfinished washing downstairs. No way would I allow my family to attend my funeral with dirty underwear, and I wanted them to have nothing to worry about. So, I went down to the basement to get it finished.

It was there, amidst the clutter and darkness of my basement, busily trying to get clothes done, that I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Puzzled, thinking maybe God had awakened Roger, I turned to see who was there, no one. I thought the pills were taking effect or I really had lost my mind. I really was crazy. Turning back to the task at hand, I felt the tap again, only this time I heard a gentle, soft voice coming from somewhere inside of me saying, "Who do you think you are? I am the one who decides about life or death." Then there was nothing else. I knew what had to be done.

I calmly, slowly walked back upstairs. I called a local pharmacy to see if making myself throw up would help. When they told me to call the Poison Control Center, I knew things were bad. I still took my time. Yet, trying to be obedient I dialed the number. I told them what type of pills I had taken and they asked to speak to a responsible person. I put Roger on the phone. When he hung up I knew he was angry and disappointed, but so was I. I did not care what he thought. Why did I have to live?

Roger ranted and raved about my stupidity all the way to the hospital. I eventually tuned him out. All my life people told me how stupid I was, his ranting only made me want to die more. All I wanted was for someone to be gentle, kind, and understanding. I needed someone to say it was okay to hurt, and to be mad at the injustice in the world, but all I received were accusations and hatefulness.

Trying to commit suicide was not new to me. I tried the first time at twelve-years-old. I took a whole bottle of aspirins. Then, at the age of sixteen, I slashed my wrist. When I was twenty-three I took 97 Librium and 7 Darvon, plus drinking all night. No matter how I tried to take my life, I always failed.

People always needed more from me than I could give. What they needed from me remained elusive, but I never stopped searching for the key to everyone's happiness. I failed everyone I loved. No matter how hard I tried to find God's purpose for my life, I failed too. There was no peace for me, only pain, and I wanted to die. I needed a gentle Shepherd to prod me and encourage me, but I felt I was the black sheep he did not want.

I closed my eyes and drifted into never, never land. I remember praying, "Dear God, please let me die. There is no reason for me to live. I want to see you, feel you, and touch you. I want to be held in your arms and feel loved. Please," I begged, "let me die!" He didn't answer the prayer in the way I thought he would. Little did I know, God had another plan for my life . . .I lived.