MEMOIR OF A MISFIT: Finding My Place in the Family of God

People have always looked at Ford funny. "As a child," she writes, "I blamed my family, that odd, five-member cast of cartoon characters that always walked along the sidewalk in single file so that real families could pass by intact." The older she got, the more often she blamed herself—for the death of three grandparents in six weeks; for harassment from a trusted counselor; for humiliation in a succession of controlling churches; for feeling ignored by God. Dulling the pain, she spent her young adult years in an alcoholic haze. Eventually her friend Eileen, who "always, always puts her verbs at the beginning of a sentence," ordered her to "give it up. Tell God you'll never have another drink again." Ford obeyed, but she continued to feel like a misfit despite a good marriage and professional success as a writer and editor. Then a sudden health crisis jolted her out of constant attempts to meet others' expectations. During a subsequent retreat, "I found the courage to look at myself and... hear the cry of my own heart." Ford's story, though serious, is not dark. Introverted, self-deprecating, perfectionistic and depressive, she is Woody Allen pursued by Jesus Christ. If there is a flaw in her captivating account, it is her leap from God-haunted despair to cheerful eccentricity in just one chapter. That chapter is full of clues as to what made the difference, but from a self-described "overthinker," it is not quite enough. Let's hope she is leaving room for a sequel. (Feb.)