CHAPTER 1 My Believer Is Broken
Let me introduce myself: my name is Brea Rea Joyce (Rea is pronounced “REE”; my parent’s sense of humor, I always thought). I’m an archeologist currently living in Chicago. What brought me to Chicago? I came to the city to work with an organization that recovers sunken ships from the chilly waters of Lake Michigan. I grew up in southern Wisconsin, in the little town of Clinton, just north of the Illinois border. It was a great little town to grow up in; everyone knew everyone else. The bad thing is everyone knew everyone else’s business. We moved from there to Beloit, Wisconsin, when I was nine. Things changed a lot, moving from a small town to a larger city. The move and the reasons for it caused a significant stressor in my life; I survived, but not without scars. I received my degree in archeology from a private university in Wisconsin. A few years ago, I set out on a very strange adventure. It was more of a quest than an adventure, or perhaps both. I’ll explain more as we continue this conversation.
To help you understand what prompted my quest, I would like to share the stories of several people who have struggled with the same issue I dealt with, a condition that seemed to leave us with an inability to believe. My story falls among the ones I am sharing. All names have been altered to ensure privacy. I hesitate to tell you which story is mine. Why? Well, let’s just say I want to leave this open to your imagination. Chances are you will determine what caused my brokenness based on what may be your own. Each story represents a life situation that left these people with the same condition I had, a condition I called a broken believer; each of us with this issue was conditioned by life events that caused us to demand clear proof of certain things before believing. Simple things may not require much proof; however, the major things in our lives, such as “Is there a God?” require something more. Much more.
To accept things as true without evidence and to believe those things, many call faith.
Unfortunately, for a great many of us, the ability to meet this requirement is impossible. The ability some seem to be in possession of that allows them to accept things without proof is either broken or nonexistent in us as broken believers.
Let me introduce you to some of the people in my life who have shared their stories with me and asked if I would include them in this book. Their hope is that you might better understand our plight. Should you happen to cross someone who says, “I just can’t believe!” Perhaps this book will provide you with the message they need. To this end, I share their stories and mine.
Let me introduce myself: my name is Brea Rea Joyce (Rea is pronounced “REE”; my parent’s sense of humor, I always thought). I’m an archeologist currently living in Chicago. What brought me to Chicago? I came to the city to work with an organization that recovers sunken ships from the chilly waters of Lake Michigan. I grew up in southern Wisconsin, in the little town of Clinton, just north of the Illinois border. It was a great little town to grow up in; everyone knew everyone else. The bad thing is everyone knew everyone else’s business. We moved from there to Beloit, Wisconsin, when I was nine. Things changed a lot, moving from a small town to a larger city. The move and the reasons for it caused a significant stressor in my life; I survived, but not without scars. I received my degree in archeology from a private university in Wisconsin. A few years ago, I set out on a very strange adventure. It was more of a quest than an adventure, or perhaps both. I’ll explain more as we continue this conversation.
To help you understand what prompted my quest, I would like to share the stories of several people who have struggled with the same issue I dealt with, a condition that seemed to leave us with an inability to believe. My story falls among the ones I am sharing. All names have been altered to ensure privacy. I hesitate to tell you which story is mine. Why? Well, let’s just say I want to leave this open to your imagination. Chances are you will determine what caused my brokenness based on what may be your own. Each story represents a life situation that left these people with the same condition I had, a condition I called a broken believer; each of us with this issue was conditioned by life events that caused us to demand clear proof of certain things before believing. Simple things may not require much proof; however, the major things in our lives, such as “Is there a God?” require something more. Much more.
To accept things as true without evidence and to believe those things, many call faith.
Unfortunately, for a great many of us, the ability to meet this requirement is impossible. The ability some seem to be in possession of that allows them to accept things without proof is either broken or nonexistent in us as broken believers.
Let me introduce you to some of the people in my life who have shared their stories with me and asked if I would include them in this book. Their hope is that you might better understand our plight. Should you happen to cross someone who says, “I just can’t believe!” Perhaps this book will provide you with the message they need. To this end, I share their stories and mine.
CHAPTER 2 The Straw that Broke the Camel's Back
It was late summer when I started to attend religious meetings with a small group of people who seemed to be genuine and poised to make discoveries that would change the world. The group leaders were a nice young couple.
The group I was involved in, once they found out my difficulty with belief, kept offering various ways or tricks to get me to make a commitment to their belief. At first, because I really liked all these people, I tried very hard to follow their suggestions. However, after a period that lasted several weekly meetings, they were getting irritated with me and my lack of willingness to give in. I, on the other hand, was very frustrated with their inability to offer me something that could help me; there was growing tension over the entire matter. Finally, attempting to get me to make my decision, Danny said, “Why are you even coming here if you don’t want to get on board with our beliefs?” I’m sure, now, he didn’t mean it the way it either sounded or the way I took it, but at that moment, I felt he was giving me an ultimatum: “Either get on board or get out.” I was hurt. I felt more broken than I have ever felt. All the disappointments and ruined relationships in my life came crashing in on me in that one moment, and my heart and hope broke.
As a result, I grabbed my coat, and I ran away into the night, hurting and broken, wondering what was wrong with me. Was there any hope for me, or was I doomed to unbelief and loneliness for the rest of my life? Why did I have to be so weird? Why couldn’t I be normal like everyone else I met? Things were so hard for me to accept. Why? Was there no hope for me?
I was only a few blocks from my condo when I walked past it: a small store with a display window dimly lit. The only businesses that were open that late at night were the bars, clubs, and restaurants, yet there was a little shop in the middle of them. It was out of place; it didn’t belong in the location it was in. I peered into the display window. As I looked at the items in the display window, they all appeared broken, a wheel missing here, a partial nameplate, an outside doorway with no door, a doll with one arm missing, and a book with no cover. What kind of junk store is this? I thought to myself as I gazed at the items. I glanced to the left of the window, and there was the sign stating “open” that struck me as odd for a shop to be open at this time of night. Curiosity got the best of me; I dried my eyes, opened the door, and went in.
CHAPTER 3 Lost, Not Broken
I felt alone in the store, with no other customers, and where was the salesperson? I spent a few minutes browsing through the items, taking note of the missing parts when my eyes suddenly landed on a shield and a sword hanging on a display rack. I walked over to the display rack and took note that they both appeared to be from the Roman Empire era. As I looked, they did not appear to be fake. These were not the first artifacts I had seen of this nature; however, their condition was so new they looked like they had just been made. With one exception: they had battle marks on them.
The shield appeared to have been struck many times by a weapon, the shield successfully fending off the attacks. This was extremely interesting to me; after all, what were the chances of finding something of this nature in a junk shop? The workmanship of the shield was remarkable, and it was decorated, which meant it was the possession of a seasoned warrior who had faced many battles, probably a dignitary or an officer.
Curiosity got the best of me; I reached out and took hold of the shield, and lifted it from its position on the display rack. Suddenly everything changed. My surroundings turned from a junk store to a wide-open battlefield, with soldiers all around me, daylight instead of darkness. This was no longer Chicago; I was standing in the territory of the Roman Empire. My surroundings were not of the current age, and this was not a recreation of a battle from antiquity; this was the real thing. I could hear the moans from those who had been wounded; I could smell the smells of battle, the stench of sweat and blood mingled. I nearly vomited.
It was late summer when I started to attend religious meetings with a small group of people who seemed to be genuine and poised to make discoveries that would change the world. The group leaders were a nice young couple.
The group I was involved in, once they found out my difficulty with belief, kept offering various ways or tricks to get me to make a commitment to their belief. At first, because I really liked all these people, I tried very hard to follow their suggestions. However, after a period that lasted several weekly meetings, they were getting irritated with me and my lack of willingness to give in. I, on the other hand, was very frustrated with their inability to offer me something that could help me; there was growing tension over the entire matter. Finally, attempting to get me to make my decision, Danny said, “Why are you even coming here if you don’t want to get on board with our beliefs?” I’m sure, now, he didn’t mean it the way it either sounded or the way I took it, but at that moment, I felt he was giving me an ultimatum: “Either get on board or get out.” I was hurt. I felt more broken than I have ever felt. All the disappointments and ruined relationships in my life came crashing in on me in that one moment, and my heart and hope broke.
As a result, I grabbed my coat, and I ran away into the night, hurting and broken, wondering what was wrong with me. Was there any hope for me, or was I doomed to unbelief and loneliness for the rest of my life? Why did I have to be so weird? Why couldn’t I be normal like everyone else I met? Things were so hard for me to accept. Why? Was there no hope for me?
I was only a few blocks from my condo when I walked past it: a small store with a display window dimly lit. The only businesses that were open that late at night were the bars, clubs, and restaurants, yet there was a little shop in the middle of them. It was out of place; it didn’t belong in the location it was in. I peered into the display window. As I looked at the items in the display window, they all appeared broken, a wheel missing here, a partial nameplate, an outside doorway with no door, a doll with one arm missing, and a book with no cover. What kind of junk store is this? I thought to myself as I gazed at the items. I glanced to the left of the window, and there was the sign stating “open” that struck me as odd for a shop to be open at this time of night. Curiosity got the best of me; I dried my eyes, opened the door, and went in.
CHAPTER 3 Lost, Not Broken
I felt alone in the store, with no other customers, and where was the salesperson? I spent a few minutes browsing through the items, taking note of the missing parts when my eyes suddenly landed on a shield and a sword hanging on a display rack. I walked over to the display rack and took note that they both appeared to be from the Roman Empire era. As I looked, they did not appear to be fake. These were not the first artifacts I had seen of this nature; however, their condition was so new they looked like they had just been made. With one exception: they had battle marks on them.
The shield appeared to have been struck many times by a weapon, the shield successfully fending off the attacks. This was extremely interesting to me; after all, what were the chances of finding something of this nature in a junk shop? The workmanship of the shield was remarkable, and it was decorated, which meant it was the possession of a seasoned warrior who had faced many battles, probably a dignitary or an officer.
Curiosity got the best of me; I reached out and took hold of the shield, and lifted it from its position on the display rack. Suddenly everything changed. My surroundings turned from a junk store to a wide-open battlefield, with soldiers all around me, daylight instead of darkness. This was no longer Chicago; I was standing in the territory of the Roman Empire. My surroundings were not of the current age, and this was not a recreation of a battle from antiquity; this was the real thing. I could hear the moans from those who had been wounded; I could smell the smells of battle, the stench of sweat and blood mingled. I nearly vomited.
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