"Another hard thing about leaving abusive church environments is that life keeps going. Hard things will keep happening. Hard things outside of the trauma experienced inside of those church doors.
Even after you leave and can finally breathe and find the freedom outside of that toxic air, there's still more life to live. And other suffering to face on top of processing all that has happened in being spiritually abused. Because life is hard. And that's just the way life is.
Even years later, it's often when difficult times come that I find myself thinking back on the last decade of church life and what it was like when a crashing wave came and toppled me over.
There were always people at the ready. Prayer "warriors" to call. Casseroles that would be delivered. Small groups to talk to. Pastors to lean on. A whole group of smiling faces standing on the shore, waving goodbye as we ventured off unto some particular hard journey we were on at the time. "We will be here! We love you! We are praying!"
And somehow it felt a little better knowing someone's prayers were being heard by this God who had, in his sovereign will I was told, ordained whatever hardship it was that we were facing to happen in the first place.
Things are different now. The waves of life keep coming. But the shore is quiet. The crowd has left. And to this day, that has been the most difficult thing for me to process in all of my years spent in this western American church culture.
It's hard to put into words how it feels to think that my value as a person was not because they loved ME, but because they loved the value of me belonging to the institution. How else do you explain the now empty shore?
I am sure there might be some exceptions. But it has been clear to so many of us who have walked out of those church doors for the last time, that we will probably never see another casserole. The invisible "Members Only" sign that hung securely on the door as we walked away reminded us of that.
The deafening silence that once stung our ears has lessened and we have learned to live a new normal. And something much more genuine and authentic.
So now, years later, as I venture out on another unknown journey and get ready to climb in the boat, I know the crowd won't be there. Only a few fellow sojourners will be. Offering me a hug that says, "I have sailed this sea. And I am here whenever you need me."
And whether they know it or not, their single hand in the air, waving me goodbye, means more than all the cheers I have heard in the past from the crowds. Because as I have pulled away, the crowds now gone, I have watched the few silhouettes that were left standing on the shoreline, and I swear I have seen Jesus standing next to them.
I don't share these thoughts to slam the Church. I only wanted to share my experience in the hopes that maybe the many others out there like me might be comforted in knowing one genuine friend is worth so much more than the fair weathered church goers of our day.
And if you are a church goer who turned a blind eye, or forgot about those who walked out of your church building, don't be offended. I did that, too. I am just as guilty. It's one of my biggest regrets. I still think about the others who walked out before me. I so wish I would have ran after them and listened to their story. And actually believed them.
But even so, there is still time and second chances. Chances to reach out. Chances to listen. Chances to learn. Not for the purpose of praying people back into church but chances to just hug someone and be a friend and help push their boat off the shore and to wave goodbye. Reminding them you are there for them. And will love them. No matter who they are or what they believe or wherever they go.
No agendas.
If there is anything I have learned these past few years, and longed to become, that is it. That kind of a friend. That kind of a person. Because I know how desperately I needed that. And still do.
And I thank God I will have that when I head back to shore."
