At the time, deciding to leave felt like the most agonizing part of the whole ordeal. In hindsight, a few years of prayer journals were filled with distressing agony over desiring direction and reconciliation.
So much turmoil and emotional pain all the time. But we were constantly told that was to be expected. Hard was good. Hard truths. And iron sharpening iron. But in reality, We were all enduring death by a thousand paper-cuts. In reality, it was spiritual abuse.
In July of 2022, I sat in a lawn chair in California. It felt like a million miles from home. We had been traveling the US, and hadn’t been home in weeks. I sat there, eating my bowl of chili. As wonderful as the trip has been, I started to miss home. In my reflections. I counted my blessings. Home was good. Except one thing, I had a sense of dread when I thought about church. My chest would go tight. And my body felt shaky. I craved Jesus. I craved worship. I craved devotion. Being in God’s creation, I was reminded of His glory and goodness. Why didn’t my church reflect that and what should I do about it?
My first week back, Ian couldn’t attend. Most of my friends were out that weekend too. I sat in my car for a really long time. Went and sat in my pew. And in-spite of being gone for weeks (a sin in their eyes), no one spoke to me. Not a single word.
What did I feel? Shame
This is what we deserved for missing church weeks in a row.
Was this reality? Not likely. The truth is, everyone was probably just busy. Maybe they didn't notice me. Surely it wasn't actually punitive. But so much about my experience there WAS shame, and felt punitive. That I was conditioned to believe.
I am bad.
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