I was born into a family with spiritual heritages spanning many generations. Not only was it a Christian family, but a famous one. Being from a famous family has its responsibilities, burdens, pleasures, and expectations; being from a famous religious family intensifies all of the above.
During my childhood, I had wonderful opportunities to travel, meet interesting people, make friends all over the world, and be a member of a dynamic family that has made a real difference in many peoples’ lives.
I was the middle of five children and grew up in a small community populated by elderly, retired missionaries. I was somewhat isolated from other young people (my brothers and sisters were my playmates), but kind, gentle, older Christians surrounded me.
The Sabbath was strictly held. There was no TV watching. No purchases were made, not even gasoline. We couldn’t read the newspaper or comics. But instead of feeling denied, we felt the day was special. There was always church at 11 o’clock, and I sat beside my grandparents, whom I adored. Then there was a big noon meal with any stray people my mother could round up. At 3 o’clock we gathered in the living room to listen to my father’s radio broadcast—and my siblings and I were allowed our weekly candy bar and soft drink. Later in the evening some of the retired missionaries would gather around the piano, and we would have a "hymn sing." (My children are amazed that I know the words to all the stanzas from many old hymns!)
Growing up in my home, hymns were played regularly over the radio and stereo—they were our lullabies. Bible memorization was stressed, as was personal, daily devotional time. We gathered in the mornings and evenings as a family for Bible reading and prayer. Conversations were peppered with Scripture references. Evangelism was the heartbeat of our house—we believed that man was sinful and in need of salvation that only comes through Jesus Christ. I learned early that Christianity was not a religion but a relationship. At the age of about seven I remember kneeling beside my bed with my mother and asking Jesus to come into my heart.
Those who’ve read my father’s autobiography have commented that he was away from home so often. That’s true—he was. But I don’t remember resenting it or feeling deprived. My life was full and happy, as I was surrounded by fun-loving friends and family. Mother never complained about his absences; she was interested in and supportive of his worldwide ministry. We children took on her attitude.
It was accepted that wherever we went with our father, there would be a stir. People recognized him and invariably came over to speak with him or ask for photographs or autographs. But I didn’t resent it—I was proud of him. I realized how much he meant to other people. Still, his position made me very self-conscious. Often we received special privileges—like getting to the front of the line at Disneyland!
My early education was in private school or with private tutors. Things changed for me when my parents decided to transfer me to the local public school—I never did feel like I fit in. I felt self-conscious again. I didn’t know the schoolyard subtleties outside my happy cocoon. Consequently a feeling of inadequacy has been with me all of my life—I lack confidence and am never quite sure of myself.
When I was 11, my father and I attended a church revival to hear one of his friends preach. At the end of the service the preacher asked those who wanted to make public commitments to Christ to come to the altar. I remember wanting to go but feeling awkward because of my father’s presence. Finally I stepped forward. That was the first time I stepped out of my self-consciousness to acknowledge my faith.
Though I was reared to be a homemaker and was taught that raising children and satisfying a husband would completely fulfill me, I wanted to be a nurse. But my father—without explanation—said no.
When I was 18, I left college and went from obeying an authoritative father to submitting to a dominating husband. My life was defined by my relationship to men. And any sign of dissatisfaction was viewed as a "spiritual problem."
So I fell into the routine of homemaker and mother, following my mother’s example. I loved being the mother of three. I continued with my spiritual routine of daily Bible reading and prayer, using any spare time to organize women’s retreats for evangelism and spiritual growth. But soon my tidy little world fell apart. I learned that my husband had been having an affair for more than five years. At first I resorted to my familiar pattern of denial—covering over my hurt with spiritual platitudes. I prayed. I fasted. I forgave. I claimed Bible promises. I did all I’d been taught to do. I also hid my problems from everyone, humiliated that others—especially my family—would find out.
But nothing I did made my problems go away.
My cover-up began taking its toll—I became depressed. I realized I needed professional help. This wasn’t easy for me to admit. In my growing up years, it had been implied that God and the Bible were all I needed—and resorting to a psychologist meant that you have, again, "spiritual problems." Despite feeling terribly inadequate and continuing to fear that others would find out, I sought professional counseling.
When all was said and done, my marriage ended. Certainly this was nothing I’d been prepared for or ever expected would happen to me.
In addition to my emotional crisis, I was experiencing a deep spiritual crisis as well. In my growing up years, it also had been implied that if you serve God, he will take care of you. Since the day I was first married, a Bible verse hung over our front door: If you make the Most High your dwelling—even the Lord, who is my refuge—then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent (Psalm 91:9-10, NIV).
I always took that verse quite literally. I had been serving God, being faithful to what I thought he wanted me to be. And now I felt he let me down. I was bewildered and hurt. I questioned his love for me. I questioned the truthfulness of his promises. I questioned my spiritual foundations. Nothing seemed secure anymore. All my pat answers were gone. What did I believe? Who did I believe?
In addition, I had been told that if I got a divorce, I would hurt millions of people—that my actions would affect people’s attitudes about God. Quite a heavy burden to bear!
Then one summer I spent a week reading through the Old Testament. I read how the Israelites did just about everything wrong that could be done wrong. They seemed to go out of their way to do the exact opposite of what God wanted them to do. Yet God’s purposes weren’t thwarted. His plans kept moving right along. The Israelites may have come through worse for the wear, but God was doing just fine.
I came to understand that I’m not responsible for God’s reputation. No, that doesn’t mean I’m free to do whatever I want or that I’m allowed to be a stumbling block—but I’ve found that the joy of life is stripped from us when we place upon ourselves the responsibility for God’s reputation. Many Christian leaders are weighed down by this idea of "be perfect—or else!" So when I finally laid this burden down, I was free.
I also learned that I was interpreting God the way I wanted to. My expectations fit my thinking, not his. Underneath the trauma, doubts, and hurts, I knew God loved me and that he was sovereign.
Slowly I shed my childhood faith and matured in my theology. God no longer was black and white. He didn’t live in a box. But he’s a great and good God with whom I can be honest. I’ve learned that he isn’t threatened by my anger or doubts. In fact, when I ask questions and express doubt, it’s a sign of faith because I’m assuming God is listening and that he’s the source of the answers. As long as I’m in dialogue with God, I’m expressing faith and nurturing hope.
At midlife, I decided to reinvent myself. It was at this point that I was challenged to finish my college education. And at college I found a community of seekers. I’ve enjoyed my relationships with students, faculty, and staff, and I’ve been stimulated and challenged and stretched by my studies.
My parents are quite proud of the fact that I decided to go back to school. When he’s in town visiting me, my father has even gone to some on-campus events with me. I will be the only one of his three daughters to finish college.
One of the drawbacks of being a Graham is that I constantly struggle with other people’s expectations—trying to measure up. It exacerbates my sense of inadequacy. But slowly I have come to accept the fact that I don’t have to meet those expectations.
I’ve grown up a Graham, but now I’m learning to be comfortable with myself.
Originally published in the May/June 2000 issue of YouthWorker Journal, copyright 2005, Youth Specialties. Reprinted/used with permission.
