For nearly 20 years I stood in a pew every Sunday morning and coughed at the beginning of the “Nicene Creed” so I didn’t have to declare, “I believe in one God, the Father Almighty.” I couldn’t say the words “I believe” aloud, because I simply did not believe. Yet there I was, Sunday after Sunday, reciting empty prayers to a non-existent God.
I pretended to believe because I was afraid to admit unbelief, even to myself.
My husband and I moved from Massachusetts to Nebraska not long after we got married. While Brad went off to his new job, I stayed home with our colicky infant. I remember standing at the sliding glass door, holding my screaming baby and gazing out at the bleak backyard. All the ways I’d always defined myself had been obliterated. My friends and family lived 1,500 miles away. The Nebraskans I met talked chummily about God like he was the P.T.O. president. My career had been replaced by a Merry Maid to-do list.
I was lost.
…I’m excited to be over at Prodigal Magazine today (Have you visited there yet?)…will you join me there for the rest the story?
{And a quick note: will you come by here tomorrow, if you can? I don’t normally post on Saturdays, but tomorrow I’ll be writing for Compassion Blog Month, and I’d love for you to come by and read…and maybe sponsor?!}
