As much as I’ve tried to process, ponder, and pick stuff apart, I’ll simply say for now that the last seven years or so have been disorienting. I won’t go as far as to say I’ve been deconstructing, as that word is a bit loaded and a lot dramatic compared to what I’ve been doing. At the same time, I don’t want to understate the amount of disappointment, confusion, shock, anger (occasionally bordering on rage), and deep sadness I have felt toward certain branches of the stream of Christianity I’m a part of. Perhaps detangling is a better term. But I’m not wanting to go into that a ton here. Not yet anyway.
What I am wanting to do is practice being more of a noticer—seeing people who don’t seem to be flailing around in choppy waters like me but instead are more like anchors. People like my mom: a woman who is stable and steady, who sees similar things as me, yet keeps on watering her flowers, making food for people, playing the organ at church, showing up for her friends, and volunteering at a thrift store that employs people in the penitentiary system. She keeps on making music, meals, and memories, keeps on listening to Reactionary, Big Feeling Me, and keeps on being her steady self.