It was a Sunday, of course.
All my most important days were on a Sunday back then. I lived, built, and consumed church. Church lived through, built, and consumed me right back.
Sunday, September 19, 2021 was the day my church gathered in person for the first time since the start of the Covid-19 pandemic lockdowns. On that day, 1,000 days ago, I had a watershed moment. Like a continental divide. Like a point of no return.
It was the moment I knew there was no point in returning. Well, except for all the times I had to per my conditioning, my uncertain future, my care for people I was leading, and my fear I’d made an irreversible mistake. Leaving church, I’d been warned, would be a mistake.
I believed this so much that it would take me another six months to actually leave officially and completely. On my terms, and with dignity.
It didn’t end up being a mistake, but mistakes were surely made. Regrets exist. Griefs persist. Those are stories for another time; I could write a whole book about it. What you should know is that far too much has to happen for the Good Church Girl to walk away because she has no other choice.
Leaving wasn’t a mistake I made. I don’t regret walking away to liberate myself. I will never regret honoring myself over toxic religion. The mistake I made over and over once I finally left was believing I would never be okay again. Never belong again. Never be safe again. Never feel at home again.
Fast forward 1,000 days.
Feelings aren’t as raw anymore, although those three round zeros are the triplet tears of relief, grace, and tenderness today. I took time to heal and rebuild. I recovered my art and my voice. Wounds have scarred over, and the gift of hindsight has been kind to me.
A couple years ago, I felt ready to tell my story. I took the ashes of my disintegrated church life, added a little water from the streams of mercy, and made art with the slurry. I made meaning from this great love and loss of mine by writing about it from a place of belonging, safety, and home.
I thought those stories would end up here on “Wandering Home.” When I created and named this newsletter, it was with the dream that it could become the place I figured out how to be okay again. Belong again. Feel safe again. Be at home again.
In the end, I did it in private between blank pages and erasable pens as I codified nothing, interrogated everything. I did it as I let the art of storytelling sanctify and clarify my lived experience. I did it over 1,000 cups of coffee, glasses of wine, and meals with my people that were as real as the communion I’ve tasted in chapels.1 I did it in 1,000 hours of therapy, and on the yoga mat, and behind a camera, and lying awake in the middle of the night trying to remember if I ever really knew how to pray.
In other words, I had to live some life. I had to reclaim my humanity. I had to honor my wholeness. I had to feel my rage and anguish. I had to heal my nervous system. I had to learn how to preserve the good parts and let go of the rest. I had to forgive. I had to realign my soul.
And only then could I write my story.
If you’ve been wondering where all those words went, they wanted to become a book. Some things are just too sacramental for the internet.
I have spent the last few years writing a memoir about a decade of faith, home, travel, and belonging, though I started writing it long before I had lived the ending.
It’s my version of what happens when a wanderer remembers who she is. And it's the book I needed to read 1,000 days ago but didn't exist yet. Perhaps it can eventually serve other wanderers and wonderers. At the very least, I know this creativity has served me, the creator, and it serves the Creator.
We all have had turning points in life, when we had to pivot and learn to live again. Before and after. Then and now. When we abandoned or outgrew the shell and found ourselves naked in the wide ocean.2 When we had to walk out of that middle school or chapel or office or home or courtroom or airport or hospital and have to let a new story unfold.
Mine happens to begin and end exactly 1,000 days ago.
And? I wrote the journey down.
Prone to wander,
P.S. If you feel like becoming a patron of my art while I edit and finish this book, please join me over at Buy Me a Coffee. I don’t have paid Substack subscriptions for my writing, so BMAC is like my virtual tip jar and support community. So grateful to the paid members who’ve signed up to keep me fueled for this next leg of the journey. 🙏🏻 THANK YOU.
Related posts.
These people were my saving graces. You know who you are, and this story is as much ours as it is mine. I could write a whole book about solely this love and sister/brother/otherhood. And especially to Lane and Maddison, who I also owe photo credits for nearly every post I've ever made on Substack that included any photos of me. Thanks for seeing me and us through.
From a Scott Erickson illustration, the one you can see tucked into the cover of my draft manuscript binder. It reads, “Your shell was never your home. The ocean is.”
your story is so similar to mine in so many ways / i was born and bred in the baptist church / my father was the pastor / that was all i knew until one day . . . hmmm maybe i should write my own story / ps i couldn’t get your ‘buy me a coffee’ to work
I can't wait to read your story, Shelby! <3