I grew up at the foot of the cross. I did. And I spent the next zillion years memorizing scripture, singing really weird songs and turning the other cheek. I sound resentful about it but I’m actually not, I swear (not on the Bible, don’t worry, and not with the Lord’s name in vain lest I be succumbed to an eternity void of farmer sausage and urns of french vanilla decaf coffee).
I totally just forgot what I was going to write.
I’ve had a spiritual experience or two. I remember crying, repenting at Nanoose Bay Bible Camp when I was 13. For what, stealing lipstick? God knows I had a lot more to repent from in the years to come. But I mean, back then, with the preachers, the choirs, the emotions, they’d get to me. They’d really get to me, you know? They’d draw me in, circle my soul with their fingers, press in on the sore spots and before long I’d be on my knees. That draw, that pull, it was everywhere. Boyfriends, employers, random strangers. Fuck. It sucked.
As I near forty (in two months!!!), I’ve come to learn (the hard way) that church happens everywhere and anywhere, without discretion. When I run, especially outside and especially when I’m pushing my physical body to its limits in the same way I do when I give birth, or when I get through emotionally difficult times, the vent between me and Other is wide fucking open. She doesn’t just press in on my sore spots–He picks me up, saturates my being with every single healing potion on tap. I feel it all. Soothed, energized, cradled, elevated. I haul ass along the side of that freeway and I stare straight into the eyes of the Divine. Locked in. We nod. We’ve got this.
It is finished, but it’s not the end.