The day I revealed to the other moms that I'm a bad Christian
Of all the things I could have gone donkey nuts over, it was "quiet time" that pushed me over the edge.
The first time I walked into a church, I might as well have had a red bull’s-eye painted directly over my heart. You couldn’t have picked a more perfect walking target for somebody’s next “intentional relationship.” I was scared and sad and deeply wounded, and I was looking for someone to tell me that life would be okay.
One Sunday morning when my husband, Steve, wasn’t home, I made my way to the church closest to our house, nervously checked my little boy into the kids’ program, and sat alone in the very last row, as near to the exit as I could possibly get. I was there not out of curiosity or even genuine interest but out of sheer desperation.
Growing up, I’d heard over and over again that Christians are losers who don’t know how to live their own lives. I was told Christians are pathetic dummies who need a crutch to lean on because they can’t stand on their own two feet. I was taught to see Jesus as a leader for people who couldn’t think for themselves and needed to be told what to do. So as a confused 19-year-old with a child I didn’t know how to raise, a husband I didn’t know how to love, and a life I had no idea how to live, it seemed like maybe I should meet this Jesus, the God of pitiful weaklings who are limping along without a clue.
