I was twenty-two years old in this photo. My days were spent wandering through alpine forests, or swimming naked in pristine rivers, or drinking Constant Comment tea while listening to Joni Mitchell on the stereo. I had two children, with my eldest almost five years old already. Life should have been good. But it wasn’t. I was hurting, haven’t recently run from “Michael the Archangel” as well as the guy who rescued me from that horribly abusive relationship. (I’ll link to that story at the bottom of this post if you’re interested).
I had never forgotten my desire for God or church. I had taken myself to church when I was just 10 years old, while the rest of the family went about their ordinary Sunday morning. It made me feel good inside. And I still wanted that feeling of being scrubbed clean…that feeling of a fresh beginning.
One Sunday morning, soon after this photo was taken, I took myself to church again…only this time I took my little boy with me. Days Creek, a tiny town of two hundred in Oregon, hasn’t grown much at all since I lived there in the early 1970s. I’ve been back. It’s still beautiful, although the general store looks like something Michael J. Fox would have seen in his movie, “Back to the Future.” Moss now covers the roof, windows are broken, and a gas nozzle lies on the ground. My fond memories of walking into that store to get a can of refried beans for 17 cents are now overshadowed by its demise.
My excitement to go to church there grew as I walked along the road that hugged the mountains on one side and cow-filled green pastures on the other. Many of the town structures were originally built in the late 1800s and still retained their antique charm. But the post office wasn’t one of them. By the looks of it, a poorly done renovation took place in the 1960’s. It looked dilapidated a quick decade later.
Butterflies began flitting around in my stomach as I neared the building. The woman who worked the counter there didn’t appreciate us hippies moving to this tiny enclave of hard-working folks. She always sneered at me as she tossed my “General Delivery” mail across the counter…especially if one of the envelopes contained a government assistance check. In fact, not one resident of this town had ever smiled at me or answered me when I said hello or waved back when we passed on the road.
But for some reason I had it in my head that church people would be different…I could belong here. I could feel clean again…start over again.
We continued the mile walk down the forested road under a bright turquoise sky. Nothing was going to get me down this day…not even the unfriendly lady behind the counter at the post office. We walked up the final hill to the church, walked in, and sat down on a wooden pew on the epistle side.
I am not exaggerating about what happened next. As my little four-year-old son sat by my side, me in my long blue and white checked dress and my lace up granny boots, heads turned to stare. The service began with a hymn, and I opened the hymnal in front of me in a feigned attempt to act like this wasn’t my first rodeo. “Bringing in the Sheaves,” still rings in my head and makes me chuckle, some fifty years later.
As we sang the three songs, closed our hymnals and sat down, the pastor began to speak. I kept thinking that once the service was in full force, people would quit staring and focus on the matter at hand. That didn’t happen. For the entire hour and a half, my son and I were stared at in a way that reminded me of the woman behind the post office counter. My face felt flushed and shame of unknown origin gave me something that felt like a hot flash.
Later, we made our way out of the church building. No one spoke to us. The walk home seemed to take longer than the walk there, and my bright mood vanished. I knew I wouldn’t “darken the doorstep” of that little church ever again.
The next day, as I stood at the counter of the post office, the clerk told me there were Iris bulbs planted around the post office and if I wanted some I could come dig them up…as many as I wanted! I went home and grabbed a shovel and made my way back down the road. “Too bad you weren’t kind to me before I came to your church!” I thought.
Little did I know that after this photo was taken, after I tried to find God and somehow missed “Him/Her,” life would take more tumbles than I could handle. I would experience serious mental illness and not want to live anymore. I would lose my brother and then my father to suicide. I would marry an abusive narcissist. A decade later, although no longer married to him, I would fall down a flight of stairs and break my neck, get diagnosed with a brain tumor, and end up having two brain surgeries. And, I would continue to seek God and attend churches. I had braved attending again after I had lost my brother a few years later.
My disorganized relationship with the organized church continued for forty-five more years. I felt disoriented for much of that time. The church saved me and killed me…sometimes both at the same time.
Through most of those years, I was still like the compliant little girl who took herself to church at ten years old. The inference in many sermons was that no matter what happens to you in your life, you are to act as if everything is fine. It’s ok to ask for prayer but if the prayer isn’t answered, it’s your fault…you aren’t believing hard enough…or you have sin in your life. Everything happens for a reason. It will all work out in the end so don’t cry about it. If you do, you will ruin God’s reputation. Because God allows every horrible thing you will go through for a reason. It’s all on purpose.
You “are” healed, not “hope to be” healed. If you get sick, you should say something like, “I’m coming down with a healing,” rather than invite death by actually admitting you are sick.
According to Emily Sanders, LMFT, spiritual bypassing can sound like the following:
“You create your own happiness.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “This is all part of God’s plan, so rejoice.” “Good vibes only.” “Just focus on forgiveness [or the positive].” “Let go and let God.” “You are too blessed to be sad.” “Faith over fear.” “The universe must be trying to tell you something.” “Rise above your feelings.”
A memory that haunts me is of myself standing in the bathroom while my father’s body was being taken to the morgue after he committed suicide. “Praise you Jesus,” I said over and over. A verse in the Bible we were often taught in Sunday School stated, “Give thanks in all things, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” The interpretation we were given is that everything that happens is God’s will for us so we need to thank him for it all.
Even though the Psalms are full of lament, sorrow, fear, and rage, we weren’t supposed to talk about how we felt. “Life and death are in the power of the tongue (Proverbs 18:21).” We were taught to lift these small but powerful verses out of their context, out of their original language, out of their timeframe, and adhere to them literally and in all circumstances—no room negative emotions in God’s army.
I can say that even with all the tragedy in my life, even with the negative church experiences, even with the letting go of the certainty of a literal interpretation of the Bible, I still love God with all my heart. I still see my life as blessed. It’s still beautiful here. It just took an inordinately long time to get there.
Michael the Archangel:
So much resonates! Thanks for sharing your stories of a long, wild, life. Many similarities (I'm a wild child of a Lutheran pastor who dropped out of school and left home at age 14 to live with my abusive much older boyfriend.) More to come...
Im thinking, "Is this what it means to work out our own salvation?" .....so many thing play into our journey and how many times did I base a belief on what I was told rather than my own personal experiences, influenced by the way others treated me.....so thought provoking, Linda!!