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.