Update

The Lord heard my prayers. Some of them He answered, some of them He ignored and one He answered in the exact way I needed but did not ask for. Funny how that works.

Let's just start with the ignored one. I asked for help keeping my confessions and my tears to myself. Pfft. I was spilling my guts and my tears all over the place, y'all. I did the ugly cry for half the service and started up again when it was over. It was embarassing and liberating. I guess the two sorta go hand in hand. You can't feel free if you're too worried about your mascara. I went through three tissues while I was there, which the church so kindly provided for me since I came unprepared. What kinda person shows up for something she knows she's gon' cry at and doesn't bring tissues? Somebody who's not entirely committed to showing up, that's who.

If you'll remember, I only promised I'd drive to the church and then I placed the rest of the burden at the feet of God. I kept up my end of the bargain but when I got there I was thisclose to turning around and going to Starbucks, er, I mean home. Somehow I managed to squash the urge and make it up the top step where I was overcome with dog tired and almost went back to the car for a nap. I mean, home. This time God put His foot down. He may have said "Get your fanny inside right this minute. You ain't goin' nowhere." I wrestled with the door for a second. You pull it open and I was justa pushing. I bet I sounded like a cat trying to cover up shit on a marble floor from the inside and they heard me coming because I felt like they all turned to notice me when I came in. And who should be standing right at the front, but my neighbor. This brings me to the prayer He answered differently than I asked.

I prayed so hard for there please not to be anyone I knew in that church. Aternately, I wished silently that I had someone with me who knew what a big deal it was for me to be there and who also knew why. My neighbor is the first person I ever told about my shameful church secret. I still remember her reaction: it was a cross between empathy and 'Why did you just tell me that? Now I don't know what to say.' But after that, I found my secret just spilled out sometimes, and as time went on, it became easier to shock and assault people with my secret and it didn't seem so shameful anymore. Why should I be ashamed anyway? I'm not the one who had a thing for little girls. So yeah, God gave me exactly what I needed this morning.

I survived the service and to their credit, no one really seemed to notice the puddle I was spilling, except I know it was obvious and they are all excellent actors. As things were wrapping up, I was planning my great escape when the words "If anyone needs to pray, the altar is open" were uttered. It took me about half a second to realize I should go up there and a brief pause for my next thought to be "Oh heck no. I did more than my fair share here today. I. Am. Leaving." The minister had a different idea. See, you can't show up to a church of 25 people and cry your eyes out then just leave. They don't take kindly to that. Its rude not to let them share your pain 3 days before Christmas when everyone's celebrating Jesus, the homeless baby, who came down here to endure it all for us. So she raced to the back of the church because she could tell I was looking for the nearest exit and she said "Can I pray for you?" But it was more of a rhetorical question. Kinda like when I ask Finley if she's ready to leave the park and she actually thinks I care. What I really mean is "Let's go now or I'm gonna sack you up and drag you to the car screaming like a political prisoner on your way to the gas chamber."  Same idea here. She didn't really care if I was a willing participant. On the way to the altar I confessed. "I was raised in church. I'm not actually here because anything's wrong."

*Eye roll and an implied, that's what they all say.*

She responded with "Okay, why are you here?" And the words just spilled out. I was powerless to stop myself. I was also empowered to keep talking and stop crying. All at once I felt free from the ties that bound me to my shame and my secrets and my fear and my worry. Free from the judgement and the sense that I didn't belong. Free of that nagging little feeling that my life isn't big enough, clean enough, good enough. Free from it all. I am enough. I have always been enough. I have always had a divine purpose. I have always been visible to God. He has always seen me through the big and small, good and bad, significant and insignificant moments of my life. He. Sees. Me. And He loves me just as I am with no qualifiers or conditions. Suddenly this thing I'd always been told and believed to be true, felt true. And it felt glorious. And it was my last prayer. Answered.

Confessions

Mercy, this space has become so much more than I intended it to be. Anyone who knows me in real life can tell you that I am much more eloquent in print than in person. And anyone who knows me well can also tell you that I make inappropriate jokes about the things that aren't really funny about my life. It's a defense mechanism; I should probably seek therapy for it.

So anyway, in an effort to live my truth out loud and to be honest about my journey with imperfect, stumbling faith, I make a lot of inappropriate jokes. Some people don't get it. Sassy Britches subtly suggested maybe I should be even more honest about how I arrived at the place I'm in now. I'm irrationally scared out of my ever lovin' mind to strip away the comedy and lay my pain bare for people I don't know but I've carried the burden of other people's shame and secrets for far too long.

Here goes: [whew. deep breaths] My earliest memory is being molested by the preacher's son in the church basement. I was about 3 years old. He was a teenager. I never told anyone so I had to see that bastard for years after the incident. My mama, as a result of a family legacy of spanking and extreme parenting and a mental illness she refuses help for, has always treated her children as her property. We were simply meant to take whatever she dished out, including nasty name calling and being smacked in the face. That kind of abuse leaves scars long after the red marks are gone. I can't remember a time that she ever told me I was beautiful. I remember every time she called me a slut, bitch, stuck up and irresponsible. Every. Single. Time. We were raised in church and went pretty much everytime the church doors were open. I hated God and I thought if Christianity looked anything like the things I'd been shown by people who hid sexual deviance and venom underneath their cloaks of pseudofaith, then I didn't need God. For most of my life I was in charge of my own moral compass, I took care of my own self esteem, I handled my emotional health alone, with no one to help carry my load.

So there. I said it. Out loud to people who may not be on my side. That's terrifying.

As a result of all that awful stuff, church is understandably not a place of peace for me. I can't step foot inside of a church without crying. Church feels like shame and secrets and judgement to me. God knows all this because I've told Him and I'm also certain He feels the terror in my heart. I've been assured there's a church out there somewhere for me and I was determined to avoid seeking The One. I told God if He wanted me in church, He was gonna have to drop it in my lap. And because He thinks I'm delightful and fun to play jokes on, He's done just that.

A few weeks ago, Tyrone and I were sitting at a red light across the street from a church in town and witnessed a little old lady walk through the front doors resplendent in a fancy hat and matching coat. Right behind her, coming up the walk, was a white woman and a little black boy in tattered clothes. I turned to Tyrone in shock and disbelief and said "Did you see that?! I wanna go there!" God must have been listening. Earlier this week, I got stopped at the red light beside the church, which gave me plenty of time to read the sign out front and find out that they have a female minister and services are at 11am on Sunday mornings. That's when I heard God say "This is it, girlfriend. They're waitin' on ya." Look, me and God are tight so He talks to me in a Southern accent. Put your judgement away.

It's taken me three days to work up the courage to make a promise to God. I promised I'd be in the parking lot of the church at 10:55 tomorrow morning. That's as far as I've gotten. I've told Him He's in charge of the rest. I might need some divine power to propel my feet forward. I might need a Xanax to do it without crying. There's that inappropriate joking again. I am absolutely out of mind worrying that I'll say a "bad" word or that I'll spill my guts to the first person to welcome me and shake my hand. I'm irrationally terrified that I'll say "My name is Belle and I've always hated God because my mama is nuts but she's in the church pew every Sunday and I was molested by the preacher's son when I was three in the effing church basement and I alway figured Christians were holier than thous hiding shameful secrets under their Sunday best and I'm better than that. I'm only here because God told me in a Southern accent that I should come and I noticed that y'all have a very diverse congregation."

Please Lord, help me keep my confessions and my tears to myself. Amen.