I sit at the end of the row, in the aisle, ready for a fast exit.
I put my bag on the seat beside me and take in a deep breath. My chest is tight, and I do my best to tell myself I’m only imagining that everyone is staring at me.
Quiet judgment sits between my shoulder blades as I settle in. I take out my journal, jotting down the date.
Instead of bringing my bible when I come to church, I just bring a journal and take notes from the service. I record the feelings too, knowing that I can look back and see whisperings of the holy spirit sometimes.
Service begins with the lights dimming and music filling the room. Everyone stands up to worship.
I sink lower into my seat. Hold my pen poised over the page. Ignore the eyes. They’re not real. No one actually cares about what others do or don’t do in church… Right?
Maybe if I say it enough, I might finally believe it.
I ask myself again why I wanted to come here. I’m uncomfortable. Scared. Feeling like everyone is watching me and judging my every move.
I breathe.
Papa told me to come.
There’s a reason.
I write that reminder on the page.
There’s a reason.
The music pulls in my chest as lyrics begin to speak to my heart. I hesitate for a moment.
Then put the pen down and ease my eyes shut. I bow my head. I listen.
Music has always been special to me in a way that draws emotion and connection. Even if it isn’t to what’s around me, it connects me to the reason I’m here.
Reminds me who it’s for.
Okay, Papa. I’m here.
And I feel Him.
A heavy presence in my chest that presses peace across my anxiety.
Soft, yet huge hands holding my heart quiet while the music wraps around me.
I’m jarred from the peace when someone taps my shoulder.
I look up, heart immediately pounding with panic.
She’s smiling as she points behind me, and I understand right away. She wants to move past me. I try to offer a smile, but it looks like a grimace.
I let her pass.
She sits with two chairs between us, yet it feels too close still.
I take a breath.
Return.
This time, I recognize that’s not my own thought.
It’s Papa.
I breathe again and I let my eyes slip closed again. My mind stumbles to catch up with the lyrics of the new song, but the guitar strings pluck through my heart with ease.
The room is still too full, the eyes too heavy, the perceived judgement too loud. Yet as the song comes to a close, I let a smile climb my lips. I’m not fighting it anymore.
The next one begins, the beat a little faster, the words a little more joyful.
People are clapping with the beat all around me, and I don’t flinch at the sound.
Instead, I let my hands rise in worship.
I don’t care about the eyes and the thoughts and I don’t want to run anymore.
Okay, Papa. I’m still here.
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