Since I hit publish on this newsletter last week, I have been contacted by so many kind and lovely people. Old friends, casual acquaintances, and strangers have commented in public and messaged me in private. After a year of silence, feeling supported and held in prayer has been soft rain in parched places.
I am humbled and honored that so many of you have subscribed. And to be honest—which is the point of all of this—I am afraid.
I am afraid that I will let you down.
I am afraid you are hoping for something I cannot give you because I no longer have it.
I am afraid that after so long of wishing I could speak, now that I can, I will have nothing of value to say.
And so, beloveds, all I can promise you at this point is the truth. My truth.
My truth in this moment is that I am struggling. I am patching together pieces of my weary soul. I am hit with waves of grief and anger. I am anxious, and my nervous system is a wreck. Some days I am doing great, and many days I am not.
I used to love church. I know that may sound kind of obvious, but I did. I loved the awkwardness of it. I loved the warm and familiar language. I know that I never really belonged in the church, but the church belonged to me. Like a tree that has grown around a fence, the church is still in me.
I loved the Bible with all those crazy stories and characters. They became the medium I dreamed of—the palette I drew from. When I try reading it now, I can’t get my eyes to stay on the page.
I have tried praying, and all I can do is nothing, or I cry. When I walk in the woods, they are beautiful, but now they are just the woods, full of bird songs and new growth, and it no longer feels like prayer.
I miss God, and I miss belief. I miss my church. I miss saying us. I miss knowing who I am. I miss having a role. I miss God being at the center of my heart and my life.
I used to tell everyone that God loved them exactly as they were. God made them in love and for love. I said it week after week, and people believed me. I believed me. I used to have the authority to speak words of blessing and welcome. I do not know who I could trust now to tell me that I am loved and that I am welcome.
I never thought that God was the church or anything silly like that, but the church was where I met God. The church was where I fell in love with incarnate love. I wish I was the kind of person—the kind of Christian—whose faith had provided solace and the balm to get through these hard times. I wish I could tell you that Jesus has been my rock over the past year and that my sense of being loved has never wavered, but I just promised to tell you the truth. The truth is, I don’t know what has become of my faith—if it will survive or what shape it might take if it does.
I am doing all the things. I am going to therapy. I am writing as much as my tender soul can muster. I am reading both light-hearted fiction and helpful non-fiction. I am trying to get enough sleep, but my brain often leaps awake in panic at 3:30 a.m. I am watching my beautiful baby learn to walk. He is a slow walker—over 16 months old—and still wants a hand to hold. Lord, do I understand that? I want someone to hold my hands too, even if technically I could do it on my own. I miss feeling like someone was holding my hand.
And so, beloveds, that is where I am today; this is my tattered truth—I am trying. I still have just enough hope left to try.
Thank you for listening, thank you for reading, and thank you for hoping with me.
Until next time.
-Kerlin
Thank you, Kerlin, for this simple honesty. I'm with you. About prayer after church: I, too, am learning this. It seems now to me that to walk in the woods is to simply let the woods be what they are - full of their own beauty and mystery and reality - without thinking it necessary to interpret or derive meaning or think or feel anything in particular: that is prayer. I used to be searching for meaning everywhere, which really was searching for sermon material; it was searching for an interpretive lens; it was trying to press reality into a recognizably Christian mold so that I could make sense of it for Christians. Now when I walk in the woods I just allow my body to do what it does when it walks in the woods: opening up, vibrating to the rhythms of earth and trees and ferns and birds and squirrels - and all of that is a prayer. My body is doing it whether my brain comprehends or approves of any of it. It doesn't need it to feel like a prayer in order for it to be a prayer; just as our bodies go about healing ourselves whether we intend it or not. Reality is suffused with healing loving power, and it is working in you, and one day you will look back on all this shit and realize it led you to the God beyond all words ideas and images. Anyway, that's what my experience is teaching me right now. Much love, M
Please never stop saying us. Your “us” is home to me. However wherever we manifest and even if the manner in which we are manifesting becomes imperceivable 🌟