You might not like her, but I do

I’ve known God my entire life. He wasn’t a looming threat or some fearful boogeyman. I spoke to Him nightly, confided my fears in Him. The idea of His presence was reassuring, like an old friend or mentor.

I was born and bred in the heart of the Bible Belt. I attended church twice weekly and measured my years in passion plays. With pigtails and ivory dresses, I was the picture of childhood purity and faith. I played an angel in a Christmas pageant, the foil halo catching onto my hair as I sang “O Come All Ye Faithful.”

I got baptized at eight years old. The lukewarm water covering my face felt like a rebirth, and I wore my damp hair to Pizza Hut with pride. Look how good I am, I thought. I’m doing this right. Be proud of me.

My marble pillar of righteousness started to crumble when I developed a crush on my childhood best friend Taylor. I was 11 years old. I knew gay people existed, especially since there was legislation going around legalizing gay marriage, but I never considered the possibility in myself.

I think I’d like to kiss her, I thought to myself as I watched Taylor grabbing construction paper for a project. She was boy crazy, always talking about what guy she had a crush on or thought she would marry one day. I hadn’t had that happen to me yet. I hadn’t ever gotten blushy because a cute boy was sitting next to me. Never even thought of kissing. I thought that maybe I lacked that aspect of maturity. Until I felt that urge with Taylor.

I would get jealous if she made a new friend, or talked too much about a boy. I would roll my eyes as we sat on the floor of her bedroom and she fantasized about what middle school would have in store for us romantically. I technically had a boyfriend at the time, but we were really just glorified best friends. 

I stopped being friends with Taylor in middle school, and broke up with the guy I was dating.

When I was 13 or so I Googled “am I gay?”

According to the Buzzfeed-esque quiz I took, I was. When I told a friend about it, she said “Just don’t tell my dad. He won’t let me be friends with you.” My face flushed and I suppressed my results and my feelings. 

I sat on the pews every Sunday and felt like an imposter. Like God would strike me down for stepping into His holy house while full of sin, or like the preacher could sense I was wrong somehow. I stopped going.

In freshman year of college, I went on a date with a girl. If I don’t like it, then I’ve been wrong, I thought as we watched a cheesy Halloween movie. I’ll be normal.

We ended up making out in her dorm. The feeling of her fingers disheveling my hair wasn’t something I hated. As I took the elevator down to my car, adorned with hickeys from a girl, I had the horrible realization that I was not normal.

I spent the next few days in a panic, like the fading purple marks on my skin were a branding that I was impure, unclean. I sobbed in my bed, begging God to fix me, begging for a different feeling. I wanted to be different. I wanted to be worthy of His love.

Even worse, I couldn’t imagine telling my parents. Would they disown me? Would they try to change me, make me normal? Would they hate me? I only thought of the worst.

I couldn’t get the words out to my mom when I tried to tell her. I brought up a childhood acquaintance who was gay, whose mom she used to be friends with.

“How do you think his mom felt when he came out?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she responded. “She seems fine with it now.”

“How would you feel if one of us came out?” I said, my voice low and wavering.

She looked confused, then softened when she saw my demeanor. “I’d still love you just the same.”

When I sputtered out the words, “I’m bisexual,” she wrapped me in a hug. I was a puddle of tears by then, of course, but we talked for a good while about it. She listened, and still accepted me. Nothing about our relationship changed.

The first question a few people had for me was, “But you’re a Christian, right?”

It took me aback every time. It reminded me of those repressed nights I spent crying into my pillow and begging for God to change the way I loved. Usually, I’d feign a smile and say I still am, but it didn’t stop the feeling of shame every time I walked into a church or spoke with my childhood pastor. I feared that God would strike me down for my impiety if I went into church, so I stopped going.

A year or so passed, the girl that I went on a date with became an ex-girlfriend, and I was dating a guy. I felt secure in my bisexual identity, even in a straight-presenting relationship. It only bugged me a little bit when people would ask if I’m still bisexual.

My best friend invited me to go to her church with her. Her fiance (at the time) was delivering a sermon, and it meant a lot to them if I tagged along.

The church was just a house, and the ministers were two cool middle-aged parents who gave us food and talked about the gigs their son played. I held the old mug they let me use with my palms, feeling that same shame I always felt in religious settings. I stared out the large windows of the historic home, watching cars pass by, turning on their headlights to combat the growing dark of evening. I wished my brain had headlights in that moment, illuminating the dark of spiraling thoughts that I was quickly succumbing to.

The sermon started, and it felt simultaneously more casual and more intimate than any religious service I had ever attended. We sat in jeans and socks, singing worship songs and praying. Chad, cool minister number one, led the prayers. He first gave a general prayer, then prayed over a specific member of the congregation who needed it.

I didn’t realize I was crying. I felt embarrassed for my tears, looking away from my friend as Chad prayed for forgiveness from people who the church has wronged. I had never heard a pastor ask for such, and the small gesture made me cry.

I spoke with Chad after, and told him that it meant a lot to me that he acknowledged that the church can, in fact, do wrong. That was why he started their home church, he said. He disliked the way churches turned away sinners (or those they deemed sinners), rather than embracing them with God’s love.

I still didn’t consistently attend any churches after that, feeling too much like the prodigal son when returning. I attended a few sermons at my childhood church, as my sister was a part of their praise band. I still hung on the words, but found my voice quiet during worship and my hands fumbling when trying to find Bible pages. 

When deep in a depressive episode, I became desperate and prayed. I didn’t even remember how to do it. I started the prayer with, “I know we don’t talk much, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry I only pray when I want something.” 

I felt like the little girl dangling her feet off of the pews, longing for approval and acknowledgement. Did He hear my prayers and think, “Oh great, her again”? Did He even bother to hear them?

I think He does hear them. To me, in my all-knowing, twenty-something year old wisdom, God is not someone who rolls His eyes at those returning to Him. Faith is not some straight line that no one stumbles upon when they walk it. Without doubt or hesitance, is the belief truly there? 

I have eventually come to believe that God made me the way that I am with intention. Who am I to regret that intention? I may not understand the path that He has laid out for me, but I want to live my life as truthfully as possible. My faith has faltered, and I still seem to be finding my place in the church (if I even have a place there). I have my own relationship with God. I pray. I ask forgiveness. I’m flawed.

I have grown to love who I have become. You might not like her, but I do.