"Welcome back." Pastor R walked with me through the church office. Her gentle smile immediately brought me ease. I hadn't walked through those doors in many years—the same aroma of coffee and worn books enveloped me. The overhead trail of fluorescent lights led us to her office.
"Thank you, it's interesting. I've been gone almost twenty years. In all that time, one foot always remained here." I shrugged my coat off and sat down on the oversized couch.
"Does it feel different?" Pastor R took a seat across from me.
"It does. I'm not really starting over." I took a sip of my coffee and smiled. "It's coming home."
It's a revelation that took some time to surface. The blur of what-ifs haunted me in the grips of grief and chaos.
Guilt.
Pain.
Shame.
Anger.
When it comes to churches, I have trust issues not just from my experiences but from Logan's as well. However, this church and these pastors know me well. They've married us, baptized our son, created space for loss, and guided me through my spiritual sensitivities, which is always a touchy topic for some people.
Never judgment.
Always love.
I had a few reasons for my meeting; one was a funeral. Yes, you read that correctly. A goodbye to the past, to the Andrea, engulfed in pain and guilt. It was time to let her rest in peace. It was beautiful. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Sobs flitted over my lips. Hands trembled.
My words are holy because they are mine. Not the normal prayers you recite or hear. It was my prayer.
The sanctuary holds many memories, including my Saturday evening service shenanigans. We joked about how Pastor P has a file on me. I sat on the pew near where we would sit with my grandma. She'd have the Bible open, and I constantly flipped the pages or put my hand over it so she couldn't read them. She'd smile and then swat my hand. I'd chuckle; although Logan was little and didn't know what I was doing, he would laugh, and my mom would try to distract him with Cheerios.
The infamous communion incident is discussed to this day. But that's for another time.
I swear I could feel my grandma sitting next to me. She always wanted us to come home. So, alone in the quiet of the sanctuary, I filled my lungs, "We're home, grandma."
"Where you should be." I could hear her say in my heart.
During my time with Pastor R, she posed critical questions, some I hadn't considered. Those answers will come in time.
I'm in an interesting place in life. When I was younger, I'd look at the adults in my life and think they had authority and knew what was happening, but they didn't. I'm 42. I should have my shit together, right? I assumed that until I figured out we were all just winging it, figuring it out as we go.
Life happens. It's not age discriminatory.
I have to pivot.
Adjust.
Change.
I have to surrender to it all—even the suck.
That's what a life of faith looks like to me.
Regulating my nervous system doesn't mean remaining calm or positive 24/7. That's not healthy. There is a balance of optimism and reality that needs to happen. Disillusionment for me intensifies my gratitude and empathy. Attempting to seek some higher place or arrival does the opposite of contentment. It brings frustration and shame.
We will only know some of the answers. We will only know some of the whys. It's the mystery that brings me to a place of gratefulness, and at times, it's uncomfortable, which I appreciate.
I'm fully alive. I'm fully loved. I'm fully human. I'm fully divine.
"You have a strong sense of self. So when you had your health emergency, it knocked you for a loop. You started to find your self again, and then the suck happened again. You will get there. Your voice is there. Remember, we are always here for you and your family." Pastor R squeezed me and left me with those parting words.
As the answers unfold, humility, curiosity, and mercy emerge.
This is my revolution.