On Broken Shelves and Getting out of Boats

"And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me." - Jane Eyre

This is the scariest thing I've ever written.

Two weeks ago I was released from my calling in the nursery at church where I had been serving for a year and a half. I had asked to be released, but as I sat through sacrament meeting--the first I'd attended in nearly two months--I cried and cried and cried. I cried through the rest of the announcements. I cried through the sacrament hymn. I dropped my head and let my bangs fall in front of my face to hide my distress. I was sad for my babies that I'd grown to love so much. I was sad for the babies I wouldn't get to know. I peeked at all the faces around me and waves of pain would wash over me afresh as I realized how much I loved these people. Most of all, I was--am--grieving the end of an era. An era that has been a part of my entire life until now.

For several years, as many members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints do, I have wrestled with questions about my church that have troubled me. To use an analogy familiar to many members of the church, I put these troubling issues "on the shelf," and continued to believe and attend. Several months ago, however, that shelf broke, for reasons I will not detail on this blog out of respect for family and friends. (I am always willing to discuss, if asked.) For several months now, I have been attending church as a non-believer. I kept coming back for a few reasons, but partly because I had a responsibility to the babies, and to their parents! I also feared change. I dreaded the social fallout. I hated the demeaning idea of becoming "a project," (I didn't and don't need rescue. Not in that way.) and wish I could just fade away quietly without drawing any notice, but also without losing any friends. I wanted to have my cake and eat it too. I have finally come to accept that the time has come to move on, and I need to be open about this reality, with myself and others. 

My reasons are my own to share with those who I feel will handle them with care. Please know, however,  that I'm not lazy, I'm not offended, I don't want to sin, and I'm not angry...

I'm heartbroken. 

This has been an acutely painful time. This is a loss, a death. At times, it has felt like I was bleeding internally--a condition no less life-threatening for being virtually invisible. 

I question my motives as I write out this post. Why am I sharing this? What is my intent? Is it an extension of my desperate, almost pathological need to be understood? Maybe. I do know that I am very anxious not to do any needless harm to the relationships that matter in my life. Some of that harm may be unavoidable, but I will do what I can to mitigate it.

With that, here is a plea to my friends and family who still believe, whoever you are that are reading this: I can't stop you from forming your own judgments about me or my family. Please know, however, that I love you. I really, really love you--like, hard. YOU are what have made this separation so painful, you with all your beautiful imperfections. I love your humanity, your individuality, your complexity. I love your integrity, your passion, your desire to bring others to a vision that has brought you so much peace and joy and fulfillment. We may not share this paradigm anymore, but that will not stop me from loving you. I respect your choices, your authenticity. I hope you can respect mine.

To my friends and family that have already gone down this path ahead of me: I'm sorry for my judgment. I'm sorry for the things I thought in my heart. I painted with broad strokes. I did not see your multifaceted struggle. All I saw was your anger, and it frightened me. It "warned" me. I saw the struggle in your eyes, and I misinterpreted it as loss of the Spirit. As "darkness." I was judgmental. I was wrong. I didn't understand that out of pain and struggle can come beauty, clarity, authenticity, and finally Peace. I thought I understood.

I didn't.

Please, please forgive me. 

"Where will you go?"

It's a time of discovery, hope and optimism. It's a time of wonder, as I look at everything around me with newborn eyes. 

Sometimes the fear of uncertainty grips me again. In those times, I try to remember the first time I let myself enjoy a rollercoaster--an apparatus that used to fill me with abject dread. 

I took a deep breath to relax my stomach, 

raised my arms to relax my fingers, 

looked ahead with eyes wide open 

and let the wind fill my lungs. 

The falling, which had terrified me so much, suddenly became the best part of the ride.

I think, biologically, humans are uncomfortable with uncertainty. It's unsafe. It's unpredictable. It feels wrong. Right now, however, I'm ok with saying, "I'm not sure yet." As I sift through the wreckage of my broken ideology, I'm picking up each item, examining them closely and making decisions. Some things I keep, some I toss. It was tempting for a minute to set fire to the whole thing, but I think I know better than to throw out the good with the bad.

image source: https://www.lds.org/media-library/images/jesus-walking-on-water-129516?lang=eng&clang=ase