cupure logo
trumpputindieszelenskywhitehousewatchpoliceukrainehome

I Thought I'd Stay In My Tiny Christian Community Forever. Then One Night At Church, I Saw Something That Changed Everything.

I Thought I'd Stay In My Tiny Christian Community Forever. Then One Night At Church, I Saw Something That Changed Everything.
The author as a girl growing up in the church.The cool breeze blowing from the air-conditioning vent above me made my skin prickle as goosebumps spread across my sweaty neck. I sat impatiently in the pew at the very back of the church and shifted uncomfortably in my skirt and blouse. I hated wearing those clothes, but church etiquette dictated that I dress nicely and modestly to attend. I would’ve much preferred shorts and a T-shirt. I glanced at my watch. They should have started already, I thought to myself impatiently. Then I noticed the pastor get up and make his way to the pulpit. Excitement spread a smile across my face as the buzzing congregation went silent. After a quiet prayer that I barely listened to, the first of the evening’s speakers was introduced, and I sat up taller in my seat, shifting to see around the woman in a grey dress seated in front of me. Her blown-out hair sat high on her head, covered obediently with a doily to reflect her commitment to her faith. At the pulpit, a handsome man with a friendly smile began to introduce his blonde wife, who was also in a fine dress and head covering. Beside them stood four children, lined up in steps, all with white-blonde hair, ranging in age from 16 to 2. The youngest, a boy, twirled around in front of the others, unable to keep still. These are the missionaries I have heard so much about in the weeks prior. Their story is the one I am so eager to hear.I grew up in a remote community of only 300 people on the tiny island of Man-O-War Cay, at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. It was the kind of place where kids rarely wore shoes all summer, riding bikes to the next makeshift fort or game. The kind of place where neighbours kept a watchful eye for skinned knees or cries for help. A community where people never locked their doors and you greeted every person you passed by name. With three churches and zero bars, it was also a very Christian community ― Brethren and Pentecostal ― where almost everyone attended church services. There were the two Sunday morning services, and then Sunday evening service where sacraments were taken, plus the Wednesday evening service, as well as the youth group and the occasional church bake sale. Ours was also the type of community where the lady in the grocery store on Monday morning would ask if you had been ill on Sunday, because surely that was the only possible reason why you had missed church.As a teenager, my life wasn’t predestined, but it was mapped out ― not by fate, but by the decades-long path I expected to follow. Once I finished high school, I expected to marry my teenage sweetheart, who was three years my senior. We would get a mortgage and house right away, and have two or three kids. I’d stay home with the children, or I might work as a secretary or cashier. It was a future I was excited about, as were all my peers. The tiny island in the Bahamas where the author grew up.Once or twice a year, my pre-planned family life would include a trip to South Florida for shopping, movies, recreation and maybe a trip to Disney World. If we saved enough and were adventurous in the future, perhaps we might take a Carnival Cruise through the Caribbean. One family on the island even made semi-regular trips to Nashville, a place that once felt distinguished and cultured. All were places that were easy and familiar in some way ― vacations planned for a change of scenery, not too far outside the comfortable zone. By the time I was 15, I was attending most of the services regularly out of obligation and a desire to “be a good person.” However, my heart was never truly in it except during the fourth week of June every year, when the New Life Missions Conference was held.The handsome missionary and his family had strong southern accents, and they told stories of their upbringing in the hills of Tennessee before God called them to do His work in South Africa. A projector was set up, and the lights in the church were dimmed as the young missionary shared images of the school they had built on the outskirts of a remote African village. He spoke of his “calling” and the need to spread the word of Jesus throughout the “wilds” of this foreign place. Intermingled with images of young men sawing trees and constructing a thatch roof, were photos of breathtaking vistas and animals I had only seen on National Geographic. As I looked at the enthralling images, there was a moment, unexpected and unintentional, when I felt my world, and its possibilities, expand.I came back eagerly the next night to hear the stories of the older couple from Michigan whom God had called to preach in Thailand. I immersed myself in their home videos, not drawn to their message of conversion or the saving of lost souls, but to their faraway landscapes, the motion and the “elsewhereness” of it all. I wanted to do “that,” but did “that” mean I wanted to be a missionary? I questioned myself, zoning out on the evenings’ sermon as a donation basket was passed around. Even in my teenage mind, where the possibilities were endless, as I searched my soul, I did not find a calling, at least not a religious one. Instead, I found the seeds of wanderlust being planted; a yearning to go.The storytelling was meant to incite the faithful with a desire to convert more people to Christianity (or at least open their wallets to support those doing this good work.) Instead, it allowed me to witness a world far wider than my tiny island, and seeing it, sparked a need to go further.Years later, as a young adult, I pulled away from the religion of my childhood, and I moved away from the island. The expectations and culture had always felt restrictive and forced, even as I faithfully showed up for services weekly. I never felt like I belonged in the bible study groups as the devoted Christian housewife, even though I had learned the teachings and could easily talk the talk. I followed along the only path I thought was an option, masquerading in a costume that sometimes felt like a straitjacket. It just never connected with my soul.Instead, I connected with the far-off places, presented to me on a grainy projector once a year, when religion meant feeling the sense that the world was calling me. The author visiting Iceland in 2017.Growing up, I didn’t know life held paths beyond the righteous — yet isolated — Christian family route laid before me. As an adult, I embraced my love for women and was fortunate to find my soulmate just one island over. For the past 18 years, traveling extensively with my wife and our daughter has shown me that there is no single right way to live; the “right way” shifts with time, place and season. I left the church behind, choosing not to stay in the faith, but I followed a path first presented to me there. Many years after those nights spent enthralled by missionary stories, I visited places as far off as Denmark and Italy, Hawaii and the Grand Canyon, even the ancient ruins of Tulum. Decades after my first Missions Conference, I stood in the remote lava fields of the Snersfellness Peninsular in Iceland and marveled at the spiritual connection to nature I felt there, having never experienced that connection to the teachings I so diligently followed in my youth. Journeys around the world have sparked conversations with strangers who became friends and, at times, chosen family — connections rooted in the joy of shared travel stories. Traveling taught me to expand my sense of what’s possible, but most of all it showed me that connection and joy deepens through the landscapes, cultures and places we come to know.I did not choose a life of conversion, but rather a life filled with connection. And it has taken me far beyond the church pew on that tiny island, to places that I never could have imagined. Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at [email protected]’m A Bisexual Woman. I’m Also A Christian. Here’s How I Came To Accept Myself.I’m A Horny Christian. Here’s How I Learned To Own My Sexuality.Young Christians Are Skipping Church But Keeping The Faith

Comments

Breaking news