Member-only story
I grew up in a Pentacostal Church. All day Sunday, Tuesday night bible study, Friday night praise service kind of church. My brothers protested their mandatory attendance, mumbles as kids, loud refusals as young adults.
My feelings were much more complicated. I enjoyed the social aspect, at church, I had my tribe. My friends were a steady source of girl time I lacked at home with three brothers.
I also knew that sometimes the messages brought me assurance. I’d leave on cloud nine, a joy that I could not articulate. I just knew I felt better leaving than when I came.
Sometimes I felt uneasy. I didn’t understand how God could eternally damn someone who grew up in another part of the world as Muslim or Buddhist and that’s all they knew. I justified it with my child-like logic. I imagined Jesus welcoming them to heaven then sitting them down and explaining the “truth”.
As a child, the thought of a rapture was terrifying. I lived with self-imposed, impossible expectations. If I couldn’t find my mom or dad right away, so many days I’d have moments where I was sure I was left behind. My heart would quicken, and I’d race to find someone I was sure would go back with Jesus.
As an adult, I understand that I had a distorted view of it all. No one told me I had to be…
