I was going through old Instagram stories I’d saved from 2018. I was so grateful at the end of that year for the group of women I was spending time with. I wrote things like, “the old is gone and forgotten” as if I wasn’t battling a painful rejection at the time. At the very moment I was speaking of being grateful and feeling blessed, I was anxiously waiting for someone I cared about to reach out, praying that he’d text me or call me. It took me a long time to get over the fact that he never did and I felt guilty for being so emotionally immature, attached to something that really never existed and unable to cherish the love that was no doubt surrounding me in my community group. I thought at the time, I was “solidifying incredible relationships” and that I’d “healed so much.” However, all I did was place huge bandaids over the gaping wounds that would only start to close back up a few years later. “Fellowship and eating, my favorite things.” That is how I ended that story, and at the time I really treasured those things. Meeting inspiring women and opening up about our lives and our dreams, praying, and having deep conversations was one of my favorite things to do. I loved church because it paved ways to small groups that made a big church feel small, and I invested so much in building meaningful connections that I thought would last a long time. For some people, they do. Sisters are found in groups like that, roommates, best friends, maids of honor, god mothers, and mentors. Amazing events are shared, life’s valleys are walked through together, and at the root of it all is the group that came together on a random weeknight to fellowship like Jesus and His disciples.
As much as I’ve disassociated from church, I miss it so much. I miss live worship and being able to sing at the top of my lungs, deep from my belly, moved by the presence of many with hands lifted high, and eyes straining to see the lyrics on a projector through tears of release and unburdening. I miss hearing a sermon I can shout out, “wow, yes, so good, and amen” to. I miss serving and supporting the leaders, breaking down the set and cleaning up the meeting place, stacking chairs and entering reports, being an active member of a real community. I miss the random brunches that led to long afternoons filled with laughter and stories shared over mediocre food in the area. I miss dressing up and wondering if there’ll be any cute guys in church that day. I miss awkwardly flirting with the guy in the cafe across the street. I miss the jokes and the drama and all the messy and stressful human elements that made being a church-goer dynamic and weirdly exciting.
I don’t have a dramatic story to tell. I stopped going to church when the pandemic hit, and I’ve yet to feel safe attending again. At first, I didn’t feel safe because of the virus that stopped 2020 in it’s tracks and dragged on into 2021, but then I didn’t feel safe because I felt like I barely knew anyone anymore. I couldn’t trust the very people who’d led me in groups or prayed over me when I needed it. I couldn’t tell if smiles were fake or forced, and I didn’t understand how after sharing secrets we wouldn’t tell our family or friends, we couldn’t be honest about what actually mattered to us. The check-ins lessened until an unspoken understanding was reached that things had changed and we’d never be the same. The lens with which I saw the church and its people was blurry and no matter how much I wiped, I simply couldn’t see through those lenses like I used to. I finally had to remove them and slip them into the place I put all my old pairs of glasses. Pairs that I once loved and needed and couldn’t see without, pairs that don’t match my current prescription.
Looking at those Instagram stories, filmed not too long ago, took me through a memory lane I never thought would be laced with such complexity. I’m still grateful for that year, those people, and the lessons I learned, even the lessons I’m only learning now, in the present. I can look back at those smiles and written reflections and know I meant every word, I can remember every hope I had at the time and thank God for where I’ve arrived. I can finally move those stories and whatever is attached to them to the Recently Deleted, select all, and delete. It took a while, and I may find that those deletes are still swimming around in some cloud one day, but now I can actually mean what I said at the time: the old is gone and forgotten. I have healed so much, and I have indeed solidified the most incredible relationship – the one I have with myself.
vraigemmerouge 