And so I begin again-

and mostly thank you

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