He stood at the front of the church and offered condolences and hope and prayers and all the right words. I sat there and thought about how I was supposed to be him. Well, not technically him—he’s a man, and not in that specific situation, but “him” as in that role.
It wasn’t always that way. As a kid, I had dreams of being a powerful lawyer. I wanted to be the female version of Perry Mason or Matlock. However, I didn’t have the grades nor the endurance for school. That was a dream I easily abandoned without regret.
In the process of becoming an adult, albeit a young one, I had new dreams. I married at 21, and started having children at 24. With a new family came heavy church involvement. It seemed like all the church-going twenty-somethings were in a race to see who could have the most babies the fastest. My husband and I had three in four years. In addition, there was (at least in my mind) pressure to be the godliest woman/mother.
Those were the years when I dreamed a new and improved dream: women’s Bible teacher and worship leader. Think Beth Moore and a female Travis Cottrell. (It’s quite laughable now.) But that went to hell in a handbag along with my good behavior.
I spent a few years recovering from the massive mess I’d made of my life, and finally, dreamed again. A smaller, more realistic dream. A Christian writer, thus this blog. A semi-Christian singer-songwriter, thus Captured. I built my community. I studied and wrote and connected with people throughout the world via social media. I learned and sang.
But that dream, along with my faith, eventually fell apart, too.
I left church. I quit singing. The community dwindled. My heart broke. The writing became more difficult. The tension built. My anxiety went through the roof. My belief system eroded.
Still, I sat on that pew recently and thought, I was supposed to be you. My faith is supposed to be intact. I’m supposed to know the answers. I’m supposed to offer hope and comfort. I’m supposed to be the one writing devotionals. I’m supposed to be the one singing a song of faith. I’m supposed to know and believe a little something about grace. I’m supposed to be a good Christian.
Instead, I’ve started taking anti-depressants. I spend my days trying to find a way and reasons to believe in God (seriously). I push my body to run and exercise because it’s the only way I can get a bit of relief. I search job sites looking for something to fill my time. I watch Netflix to fill the void. I try to avoid casual conversations about faith and church. I unfollow contemptuous, boundary-crossing, Christian folks on Facebook instead of exposing myself to them. I go to therapy in an attempt to clear my muddy brain and learn new (healthier) ways of functioning.
This is not who I was supposed to be.
The death of supposed-to and should have is hard.
