A Faith I Dreamt
As a child, going to church was never a difficult experience. In fact, I looked forward to it. I was friends with a boy the same age as me, and while the adults listened to the sermon, we would play. I remember making silly faces at each other and stifling giggles as the pastor spoke. I remember the splintering wooden pews that would creak if we stood up or sat down too quickly, alerting the adults of our shenanigans. I remember our squeals of laughter together as we attempted to play tag in the tiny room where service was held. I remember crawling under the pews in my Sunday dresses, the crimson carpet peeling away from the cold linoleum floors.
I remember being told things like “Young ladies don’t crawl and run in their dresses!” or “Behave yourself, missy!” by the older ladies in their fancy hats and matching gloves and paper fans. Despite their scolding, I still enjoyed myself. We one day stopped attending this particular church, and it became a very distant memory. For a very long time, we weren’t going to church at all, except for special occasions like Easter. I never minded it, and I never asked why. For years, Sunday was just another day, until one day my dad decided it was time to get my brother and I back into church. It wasn’t something I asked for or decided for myself, but rather another expectation to fulfill.
I was fourteen, it was an ordinary morning service, and I was counting down the minutes until it was time to say our goodbyes and go home. We’d been attending our new church for a few weeks, so I knew what to expect for the most part. But suddenly, service was interrupted, and it was announced that anyone under the age of 18 would have to go downstairs to the basement for ‘Teen Church’. This teen church was news to me. I wondered why I couldn’t just stay upstairs and sit comfortably in my anxiety next to my parents like I always had. The adults saw my discomfort. They pinched at my silence with their relentless questions and their invasive stares, but at least I knew what to expect from them.
I didn’t talk to any of the kids at church. I didn’t go to school with any of them, and they all seemed to know each other well enough already. While some of the parents and my own had attempted awkward introductions, I was really never able to get to know anyone that well. If someone was friendly enough to reach out and talk to me, I would try my best to do the same. But just like many of the adults, the few teens I recognized seemed wary of my quiet.
I knew my shyness worried my parents, but it certainly didn’t worry them enough. I tried to think of some sort of excuse to stay put next to them, but I couldn’t. I pleaded with my eyes, hoping that my mom could sense the fear falling out of them. I hoped that she would catch that fear and hold it like she held me whenever I was feeling uneasy. I wanted her to tell me, “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
But she didn’t.
She smiled at me and said, “Go on, have fun. We’ll see you in a little bit.” I winced at her words. My feet stuttered as I stood. I watched the other kids getting up to go, and I imagined myself dashing through the big church doors, sprinting down the highway leading back to our house. I walked hesitantly to the stairs and pulled at the loose threads on my sweater, all while wishing I could have somehow stayed at home.
I didn’t want to go downstairs.
The usual teen church leader was absent that day, so the few kids above the age of 12 that were present had to join the pre-teen group, or tween church. Hearing the word “tween” actually being used in a sentence made my insides lurch, as if my stomach was attempting to throw itself over a bridge. I wanted to laugh a little, but my fear hadn’t left me yet. It swallowed my joy with a quickness. I descended the stairs and noticed colorful murals of bible verses and biblical figures were painted throughout the hallway leading to the basement classrooms. I continued to follow behind the other kids and was eventually greeted by one of the adult leaders.
The man accompanying us to the classroom downstairs smiled with a softness that I hadn’t seen since middle school. I entered the pale white room. Light cascaded from the windows as shadows slanted down the sandy brick walls, and the floors were painted a sickly gray. There were 4 rows of desks vertically aligned and facing a huge, dusty blackboard. We all sat down in silence and waited to be told what to do next. The smiling man introduced himself. He began asking our group a series of random questions about school and our hobbies. I listened intently when others spoke but didn’t really say much myself. People continued to throw out energetic responses, until he slapped back with a question completely unrelated to our after-school activities.
“Who in this room believes that God is real?” He raised his own hand slowly, as if he were standing in front of his bedroom mirror, waiting for us to mimic him. Waiting for us to play pretend and be his reflection. I felt my stomach lurch again, but this time I didn’t want to laugh. I didn’t think you were allowed to ask a question so bluntly like that, especially not in church. I couldn’t have been the only person that was taken aback by his question, because for a moment the room remained silent. He immediately noticed our apprehension and said, “Just be honest and raise your hand if you do. I’m only curious.”
Curious. The adults always had to be curious. They couldn’t ever just be happy with not knowing anything, because if they were, it meant they were just as clueless as everyone else. This did nothing to ease my nerves. Should I raise my hand? He told us to be honest, but as a teenager, no church I’d ever attended felt like a safe place to be truly honest. I’d always been under the impression that church was not a place to make mistakes or to be vulnerable. Church was nothing more than another place to be polite and play pretend. Another place where the expectations of others mattered more than my own. Even so, I still hesitated to raise my hand. I knew that if I were to raise my hand, then I’d be telling a lie. And I wondered; how could I claim to believe in something that I wasn’t sure about? Why should I force myself to lie about believing in God? Will I be judged or excluded if I’m honest? Would my parents want me to raise my hand?
Anxiety struck my spine so violently, again and again until I could feel myself beginning to shake. My eyes darted across the room as I watched the other kids slowly morph into another reflection of him, until every arm was raised, and everyone’s fingertips were spread far enough to pierce the heavens. Everyone’s golden-dipped fingers, except for mine. I hesitated to raise my hand, and he had noticed. I froze, realizing that I was the only person in the room with their hand down. He sensed my fear, and it was too late to reach out to God. Too late to be his reflection. A reflection of God himself. It was too late to pretend. It was too late to lie. Everyone saw the empty space above my head, put down their hands, and waited.
He said, “I saw you hesitate for a moment there.” He asked, “Do you not believe in God?” The room was silent. I could feel everyone watching. Waiting. Listening. My tongue weighed heavy in my mouth. I wanted to believe in something at that moment. Anything. But all I could hear was the silence. God was deafening, and all-knowing, and all-seeing. In that moment, I felt as if I was supposed to explain to God right then and there, why I doubted him. I tried to explain myself, but everything I wanted to say got stuck beneath the lump in my throat. I avoided his gaze. I managed to choke out a quiet, “Um, I don’t know,” as everyone watched on with confused, pitiful, or blank stares.
I was clearly embarrassed, so he nodded his head and said “Alright. I’ll talk to you later.” I don’t remember much of our conversation, or what he might’ve said to console me. I think he mentioned something about my parents, and he asked if they knew how I was feeling. I don’t remember my response. But I do remember my dad asking about it later, and not knowing what to say. I don’t remember if that was the day that my parents realized my faith was not what they hoped it would be. I don’t remember if that was the first time I felt isolated in church. But I do remember feeling singled out, like I was wrong for not believing. Like I was wrong for not being sure. I wanted to forget about it. I didn’t want to be there anyway.
I didn’t want to go downstairs.
The next time I was told to go to the basement, the teen church leader was there. I was fifteen, and I sat down in another room, with another group of kids whose names I didn’t know. It had been a few months since we’d been to this church, and only one or two faces seemed familiar from the last time. It was much different compared to the classroom that the ‘tweens’ were forced to sit in. There was a worn-out couch slouching slanted on one side, and bean bags piled across the carpeted floor. Bright colorful posters with Bible verses were aligned along each wall. The room was larger, but somehow just as suffocating. We were told to grab a seat around a brown table in front of a whiteboard. I sat down swiftly and waited for our leader to introduce herself. I don’t remember her name either, but I remember her eyes, attentive and wide. She asked each of us for our names, and smiled at everyone as they spoke.
She seemed sincerely happy to hear us speak. For a moment, I felt a little less afraid. Then she asked, “Okay, does everyone in this room believe in God?” and just like that, she reminded me that in this place, any warmth that happened to graze my skin was temporary. There would always be a cold fence of barbed wire separating me from the sweet softness that was acceptance. At least this time, I could do and say nothing, and no one would question. The room was silent. I waited, and a sudden rush of air left her mouth. A sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. I’m glad I don’t have to have that conversation today,” she chuckled. Every time I went to teen church after that, I stayed quiet, and our leader kept smiling.
I didn’t want to go downstairs.
Then came that awful day. I was sixteen now, and we’d since moved to another church. My grandmother’s church. It was very small, with only about 10 to 11 adult members. Not many teenagers. The majority of the kids there were under the age of 12, unlike my younger brother and me. It was either Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, and besides a few guests and speeches, it was just like any other Sunday service. My mom sat beside me and prayed. I didn’t know what to pray about. I remember her asking me, “Well, what do you believe?” when I expressed my uncertainty. I couldn’t answer. I just know, in the pit of my stomach, that they blamed themselves for my wavering faith. All the thoughts that occupied my mind overwhelmed me. Why don’t I believe as strongly as everyone else does? If I don’t believe in God, can I ever be happy? Can I still be successful or be loved? Am I still a good person? Am I going to hell?
My fear was thunderous and roaring just like the prayers, the music, the noise. A typhoon of emotion surged over me. I let fear and anxiety take refuge in my ribcage, and I let them absorb my silent composure like a parasite. I remember it so vividly – the fear of judgment. The fear of rejection. The fear of damnation.
I don’t want to go downstairs.
The sanctuary that was my mind began to bend and morph into a cloud of complete distress. I remember my ears pulsing. I remember my legs wobbling as I stood. I remember how difficult it was to breathe without choking or hiccupping. I remember speaking but no one listening. I tried to say, “I need to leave. Take me home,” but my words were trapped beneath the lump in my throat again. I pleaded with my eyes. My mother sat beside me still, eyes closed, fingers clasped tightly in prayer. She couldn’t hear me. I just needed her to hear me. Then maybe she would understand.
I don’t want to go downstairs.
I remember being told how I was supposed to feel by a man that could barely remember my name, his unfamiliar hands holding mine, as he prayed over a pain he couldn’t feel. I wanted to run. I didn’t want this prayer. I didn’t ask for this. “Father god...please touch her spirit...” I remember the concerned eyes of my parents, my grandmother, and onlooking churchgoers. “...She is so overwhelmed by your presence...please help her to understand...” No, that isn’t it all. My eyes ran from their confused and invasive stares.
Please, don’t make me go.
Shame followed closely behind me as I turned to leave the room. I remember my knees growing weaker with every step. I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t stop the flow of tears. I searched for a place to hide, so I wouldn’t have to play pretend anymore. There was only one place to go for privacy. The bathroom was tiny and dimly lit as I shut the door. I grimaced at myself in the mirror. I could feel the smiling man and the smiling woman behind me. I could feel their hands on my shoulders, their eyes soft but their words sharp. My eyes were already swollen and red. I tried to quiet the sobs because I knew someone was always listening. Always watching. Always judging. But there is no one else here to judge me but my own reflection. A knock at the door jolts me back to reality. “Your mother’s in the car. We’re about to leave.” I dreaded facing them. What would they say? What do I tell them? My tears continue to pour out of me even as we pull out of the cramped church parking lot. My seatbelt stings my arm as I settle in my seat, the metal searing hot from baking in the summertime heat. The car drive home is silent and long, until my dad decides to listen to Gospel music on the radio. Somehow it doesn’t help.
We’re nearly home when he finally asks me, “Jay, are you okay?” and I look up to meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. I can almost feel myself shatter under his worried gaze. My mother turns her head to look at me, her eyes soft and wide. At least they seem concerned. My brother is sitting beside me with his eyes shut and his earbuds in, completely unbothered. “I’m fine,” I say quietly before turning away. I can finally breathe clearly, but the tears keep coming anyway. I catch a glimpse of myself in the car window and wish to reflect everything they want me to be.
We arrive home and I rush to the shower, hoping to cleanse the embarrassment from my mind. I crawl into bed afterwards, and I dream. I dream an imperfect existence. I dream of blue skies punctured pink, bleeding creamsicle orange hues. I dream my father’s disappointment. I dream my mother’s prayers. I dream my brother’s indifference. I dream of the splintered pews that prick my fingertips. I dream of sideways smiles and empty stares. I dream my fear of failure. I dream of self-acceptance. I dream of fragmented mirrors, glass shards, and my own golden-dipped fingertips, reaching for a place I may never see.