Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing (14 page)

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Authors: Stormie Omartian

BOOK: Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing
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It was simple and easy. I was born again and filled with the Holy Spirit. I left the office feeling light and hopeful, though I still didn’t fully understand what it all meant. Terry invited me to come to church with her and her husband on Sunday, and I accepted. As I was not strong enough emotionally or physically to make it there on my own, they came by the house and picked me up. It had been 15 years since I’d been inside a church, and when I entered this one I noticed immediately that it was unlike any I’d ever seen before. The structure and decor were plain compared to the fancy churches I’d been in, although very neat and clean.
“So glad that you’re here!” bubbled one of the hostesses as I entered the front door. Though I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and the hostess was in her Sunday best, she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a big hug. I appraised her cautiously and decided that her smile was genuine and her motive pure. I soon discovered that her friendliness and caring quality were typical of nearly everyone there. It was hard to ignore the exuberance, the laughter, and the absolute joy of life that came from the 300 or so people in the overcrowded sanctuary. I felt like I was attending a party, compared with the somber churches I had been in years earlier.
As I settled into one of the comfortable seats near the front, I sensed a spirit of peace settle over my mind. I felt strength coming into me just being there. Spiritual things were not new to me, since I knew there was a spirit realm from all my occult practices, but this was totally different. Instead of experiencing the fear that I had previously associated with anything spiritual, I now sensed a supernatural presence of love so powerful that it permeated the air and even bathed the floors, walls, and seats.
“There’s life here,” I thought to myself. “And the life is real.”
Pastor Jack came onto the platform and immediately began to lead us in songs of worship to God. The congregation sang hymns and choruses of praise that were so powerful they nearly elevated me out of my shoes. As their voices rose, so did my spirit, and I couldn’t help but compare them with the painfully timid congregations I had heard in the past that barely mumbled the words into their hymnals while an overzealous soprano dominated our attention. Again the word “life” came to my mind as I tried to label the comparison.
“All hail the power of Jesus’ name, let angels prostrate fall!” the full voices soared in almost a shout. “Bring forth the royal diadem and crown Him Lord of all!”
“His name is Jesus, Jesus. Sad hearts, weep no more! He has healed the brokenhearted, opened wide the prison door. He is able to deliver evermore,” came the words during a more tender moment. Sometimes it affected me so profoundly that I couldn’t sing at all but only stand, listen, and cry as the worshiping voices penetrated every fiber of my being. I gained strength from each new song and felt a release of tension from down deep inside as stress oozed out of my body.
“The Bible says to lift up holy hands to the Lord,” directed Pastor Jack, and I, along with everyone else, responded with upraised hands of worship. When I did that, I felt as if I had just let go of myself and the load I was carrying. I was offering it up to Him, and I felt Him taking it from me. Again I cried.
When the worship time ended, Pastor Jack began to speak, and it seemed as if he was speaking only to me. The Bible, or Scriptures, as he called them, came alive as he taught on a story that happened thousands of years ago but had a direct bearing on my life right now. He told of the Israelites being set free from Egyptian captivity and then wandering around in the desert for 40 years because they wouldn’t listen to God and do things His way.
“That’s me,” I thought. “I’ve been doing things my own way and wandering around in the wilderness. Oh, God,” I cried quietly, “I want to do things Your way now.”
As we were in the car heading home, Terry asked me, “Well, what did you think?”
I thought for one brief moment, then replied, “I think I’d better not go to Church On The Way anymore without waterproof mascara and a box of Kleenex.”
Terry laughed, since she was well aware of how much I was moved by the worship, the teaching, and the powerful presence of the Spirit of God in the service.
I was eager to return the following Sunday and every Sunday after that. I was still too weak to make it on my own, so each Sunday morning Terry got me out of bed with a phone call and picked me up at my house. Every time I entered the church, peace would overtake me. Healing and strength came in waves, and I got glimpses of hope for my life. Never had I heard as great a teacher as Pastor Jack, and I hung on his every word. He always brought the teaching around to where I was living, as if he had prepared his sermon to speak directly to my need. Later I realized that was the Holy Spirit working in my life, and that everyone felt the same way I did. At the end of each sermon, as the point was driven home, I had to fight back convulsive sobs. This time it was crying that cleansed and healed me, and I sensed a refreshing and renewal in my being when it was over.
Whenever Pastor Jack invited the congregation to receive Jesus, I silently made that commitment again. Just hearing that because of Jesus I could be forgiven of everything I had ever done wrong, and that now I could make a fresh start, brought life to my bones.
Every time I entered the church I cried. It was the cry of a lost little girl who had been wandering for a long time, and though she had tried to keep herself strong throughout her wandering, the minute she saw that her daddy had found her, she sobbed. Every Sunday I realized all over again that my Daddy God had found me. My Daddy God loved and cared about me when I couldn’t love and care about myself.
Unfortunately, the jolt back to “real life” started as soon as Terry drove me home from church. The moment I entered my house I began my descent slowly back into depression, until by the following Sunday morning I could barely get out of bed. Gradually, however, the peace carried over a little longer, until eventually it lasted all of Sunday. Even Rick couldn’t destroy it. However, the more joyful I became, the more Rick retreated in the opposite direction. His negative attitude fully blossomed and he became more difficult and critical, finding nothing good to say about me or to me.
One morning I came home from church bubbling over with the joy I felt inside. Rick was watching television and made no attempt at communication.
“Rick, this church is so great! I feel wonderful when I come out of there! I wish you’d come with me just one time.”
“I’ve told you before, I don’t want to talk about it,” he snapped. “If you want to waste time with your creepy Christian friends that’s your business, but leave me out of it.”
“Rick, please let me tell you about Jesus,” I persisted in hopes of penetrating the wall of his emotions with the truth I’d found. “Jesus has changed my life...”
I stopped as Rick stood up and growled with anger in his eyes, “Don’t you
ever
mention that name in this house again!” Then he walked out of the room, leaving me feeling like I’d been slapped in the face and the door shut on what little communication possibilities were left to us. His anger was so intense that I knew I must never mention Jesus to him again. All that remained between us now was resentment and we seldom spoke to one another.
As my insides became more solid, the externals of my life began to change. Little by little some of my bad habits disappeared without my even trying.
“Want a cigarette?” a girlfriend offered one day at lunch.
“No thanks,” I replied.
“Let me buy you a drink. How about a brandy, or a scotch?”
“No, I really don’t want anything.”
“Want to get high on some grass tonight? My boyfriend has got some great marijuana from South America, and we could drive over to his apartment and pick it up.”
“No, honest, I’m fine. I just don’t have the desire or need for those things. No offense,” I foolishly apologized.
“You’re getting weird, Stormie,” she said, her voice turning serious.
“Please don’t worry about me. I may be weird, but I’m very happy.” I was met with a quizzical stare.
“Look, I’m not chemically addicted to these things; I only used them for emotional solace. Now that my emotional needs are being met by Jesus, I simply don’t have the need for them anymore.”
“You
are
getting weird, Stormie,” she repeated, then changed the subject.
Within a few weeks I did something brave. I had my long, trademark-blonde hair dyed back to its natural color of chestnut brown. I was beginning to suspect that being the woman God made me to be might not be all that bad, and I wanted to find out who that was. I knew it would mean losing work, and sure enough, no one wanted a dumb blonde comedienne who was brunette. But the loss of work didn’t bother me. I was beginning to feel better about myself, and it had nothing to do with work.
About that time the Glen Campbell Show was canceled. The two main recording and TV contractors I had worked for in Hollywood developed cancer and died. A singing duo that I had performed in for several years in some of the nightclubs around town suddenly dissolved when my other half decided to go off on her own. To add to all that, early one morning I received a phone call from my commercial agent.
“I have an interview for you this morning,” she chirped on the other end of the line.
“What’s it for?” my voice wary of her answer.
“A cigarette commercial. They want a pretty blonde about your size.”
“I can’t do it,” I said with a combination of determination and fear.
“You can’t do it! Why not?” she controlled her impatience.
“First of all, I’m not a blonde anymore. And second, I don’t think smoking cigarettes is good for you. I can’t be part of something I don’t believe in, and I don’t believe in convincing people to buy a product that’s bad for them.”
“Stormie, this is the sixth commercial interview you’ve refused to go on because it involves liquor, cigars, cigarettes, or costumes that you think are too revealing.” She was obviously disgusted with me. “If you can’t accept these commercials, then there is absolutely nothing we can do for you.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said slowly. “I’m really sorry.”
“We’ll send you a release from your contract in the mail,” she snapped, and hung up.
I replaced the receiver, stunned by what had just transpired. Part of me felt great relief, but the other part was afraid because my last avenue of revenue was shut off. Suddenly there was no money coming in, and I knew I could no longer support Rick in that big house. The pressure to come up with all that money each month was more than I could bear. That, coupled with the fact that he was becoming even more critical and cruel, pushed me to the edge. Life seemed hopeless when I was around him, for he was a constant reminder of all my failures and what a rejected person I had been.
That afternoon I found an apartment and that night I informed Rick I was moving out. We hadn’t even been married the two years I’d planned, but I couldn’t take any more of it. I told him he could have the house and everything in it that was his. I would take only what I had brought into the house when we were married or purchased since then.
He agreed, and appeared to take the news very calmly. But I knew he was concerned about having to find a job and pay his own bills. I was so wrapped up in my own feelings that I couldn’t see that he battled with self-doubt too. I still couldn’t discern anyone’s problems but my own.
I moved immediately. Since I had only a few possessions, within one day I had hung every picture and put away every book and dish. Because the TV and recording industry was very slow, all of my close friends were out of town on tour. I had no one to talk to, so my relief over not having to support Rick and that house was mixed with loneliness. I felt that my life had been turned upside down and that everything that didn’t belong was being shaken out. The only problem was that there was nothing much left—just the church. The church was a refuge, my only place of security and peace.
During one Sunday morning service while the congregation was praying in small groups, Pastor Jack walked to the back of the church where I was and whispered that he wanted to see me in his office as soon as possible. I was excited to go because I loved Pastor Jack, and any chance to talk to him was welcome. Besides, I had written my first two Christian songs and could hardly wait to show him.
Once in the office his mood was very serious. Pastor Jack was not interested in my songs, but only in the fact that I had filed for divorce. “God’s ways don’t allow for divorce,” he told me. Then he showed me all the Scriptures to back it up and spent an hour explaining them.
I didn’t attempt to blame Rick, nor did I try to explain anything. I took full responsibility for the marriage and its failure. Whatever penalty there was for deceiving Rick into marrying me, I was willing to pay it even though that thought was terrifying. My choices, as I saw them, were to go back and live with Rick or else give up my salvation and the church and get a divorce. I knew there was only one choice: I would never go back and live in hell with Rick.
As if he’d read my mind, Pastor Jack’s face softened as he leaned forward across his desk and said, “I know you would rather die than go back to a situation where you’ve been so miserable.”

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