My church story is a unique one.
I didn’t get forced to go to church. I didn’t get fear-mongered into believing. I didn’t get shamed for who I was or subtly told to change. I wasn’t threatened with hell or told to toe the line lest I fall from grace.
I am one of the rare ones who has a really good and healthy story about my church upbringing. I realize now that it’s rare because of all the people I’ve met over the years and how much trauma and false doctrine they’ve had planted inside them, which they’ve had to undo as an adult.
I’ve loved God, people, and theology for as long as I can remember. My notebooks from grade school are etched not with notes on math or science, but with letters and questions to God.
This picture of me was from that time, when I was at one of many church camps, probably on my way to wade bare feet in the creek or meet under the tiny pavilion for worship.
The community I had for 18 years of my life in my home church was so life-giving. People who knew how to usher in the presence of God and people who knew how to be so real and fun and quirky and creative. I am who I am today because of all of that. I am still the person who will go deep with you and two seconds later laugh with you until we’re crying. And I am that because of who I had in the formative years.
I know I post a lot about my relationship with God. I know I always have. And the reason is not because I have a need to feel “good” or better than others or because I feel like I have to. The reason is because when I was the person in this photo, I encountered God in such a real way that I couldn’t turn from it nor forget it, no matter what occurred. I fell in love with God in a way I’ve never loved another person or thing on this earth. My beliefs on certain topics, certain groups, or even certain branches of theology have changed as I’ve grown. But my belief in Jesus Christ and his word has held, the anchor in every storm I’ve faced.
When I turned 18, a lot of what I knew of church life changed. A hardship hit my home church, and for whatever reason or reasons, many left. Some just felt called to new things, others possibly felt hurt; I’m honestly not really sure. I just know, that when I left and went to college, every steady adult I knew from my childhood was gone except my biological family. Where I went to college was a tiny town, and I never found a church like the one I grew up in. When I went to grad school four years later, I found a pretty good church to get plugged into. But it was kind of strange because I knew I’d be gone after I obtained my degree. And then when I moved to Nashville, I found The Belonging, and I knew I’d found a new home.
In the past 12 years, God has never left my side, and I’ve grown in the knowledge of what Paul said when he said neither death, nor life, nor height, nor depth, none of it, can separate me from the love of God. I have leaned into my church in Nashville and I haven’t looked back.
In the 12 years I’ve been off on my own, my family have all still lived in my hometown and all still attended my home church. The way I kept the pain of the past at bay was I simply let what I had go and accepted my family’s church as a different thing. I’d visit when I went home, doing my best to listen and worship, and then I’d go about my way, driving back to Nashville and attending The Belonging. I had accepted that the First Christian Church of Dyersburg that I grew up with was basically dead, and just respected what it had become when I had to visit.
And all that was fine until my family was essentially kicked out of that church at the beginning of this year. Once all of that went down, it’s like it stripped things down to bare bones, and it made room for the old FCC to be revived. And if I’m honest, I felt really weird about it at first.
I kind of felt like a widow who had already buried her partner and found a new partner, only to look back and see a bony hand poke out of the ground. I was happy for my family. But I thought (and still think), what does this mean for me?
Where do I fit?
I visited this past weekend. And every bit of love and warmth and joy came back to me, like it hadn’t been 12 years at all. We sang, “Good, Good Father,” and I just wept at how good of a father God’s been to me. How he established me in the epicenter of this beautiful community in my formative years. How he gave me safe, fun, wise people to do life with. How I got to witness God move in our church growing up and how I was able to watch leaders steward the growing movement with wisdom and honor.
As I was talking with someone after service, I realized that every sermon, worship set, trip, event, volunteer opportunity planted seed by seed into me that has become the very garden I tend to today. I am only 30 years old, but I have seen so much and grown so much. I am kind and stable and compassionate and confident to pursue anything the Lord puts in my path. I am still childlike and haven’t lost my wonder and curiosity. I have my priorities straight, and I know that if God’s not in it, I’m out of there, no matter how good it looks. I can be still and content in the driest of deserts or the lushest of lands.
I wouldn’t be who I am today without all the adults who loved me so well as a child. The room I had to explore faith for myself and explore my creativities revealed to me who God made me to be. It established a foundation that makes me a secure person who can therefore love others better. Have I gone off track at times and lost my way? Absolutely.
But between the community I had growing up and the community I have now, like lights on a landing strip, each person points me home time and time again, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
