First

Dear First,

I've debated this letter for quite some time now (just about an entire year, in fact).  I don't want to be one of those people who writes slanderous messages on the internet in some pathetic attempt to gain sympathy and feelings of vindication.  I do, however, want to be honest and quite frankly, see no point in having a blog if every "letter" I write is censored for potentially offensive or controversial material (is this sounding familiar?).  That being said, as I lay awake in bed unable to sleep tonight, the whole situation between you and I was playing in my mind on repeat.  I was having one of those days where I couldn't stop thinking about it.  And then I realized two things: 1.) it has been almost exactly one year to the day when I made the decision to resign and 2.) it's like a really, really bad breakup - and I don't have closure.

So, in light of my one year anniversary of the best, hardest, most-emotionally-charged decision I've ever made, I thought a letter might do us both some good.  (Who am I kidding?? This is mostly about me, not you.  But, if you feel so inclined to respond, I am definitely open to dialog.)  See, recently I've had moments where I wished that I had been in a place (emotionally or spiritually) where I could have been honest about the circumstances of my leaving, instead of pretending like everything was fine and that I wasn't deeply wounded by my church family while experiencing the most enormous crisis of my young, newly-out-of-college, newly-married, newly-moved-to-a-different-state life. As soon as these regretful thoughts creep in though, I am reminded of the bigger picture of things: that it was best for you - the church (as in, the specific congregation I am writing to) - that my leaving be the least dramatic as possible.  And, as we both well know, us Christians like to make things unnecessarily dramatic.  So, in some ways, I am glad that I was able to suck it up and put a smile on my face for two weeks while I "transitioned out" and attempted to feign sadness when sharing the news that I was leaving. The reality is, I wasn't sad.  I wasn't even mad.  I was utterly, emotionally numb.

I think it was best for you that things went as they did so there was minimal gossip and dissension among the congregation, and it was best for me because I, quite frankly, was an emotional zombie who was counting down the minutes until I could leave for the sake of my very survival.

Do I sounds dramatic?

I think so too.

But, as this very crisis that I reference proves; life is dramatic.  More than I ever thought it would be.

That being said, it has been a year-long process of working through hurt, anger, fear, and forgiveness and fighting the very attractive urge to be bitter.  In "higher" moments, so to speak, when I have a more eternal perspective and there's more Jesus and less Julie, I am really just overwhelmed with sadness.  Not for myself, but for us - the Church, that is (the capital "c", the entire group of us on this planet who are honestly and imperfectly following this God-in-human fellow named Jesus).  I'm sad because of all people to have supported me and encouraged me and allowed me to be honest and vulnerable, it should have been you. I'm sad because I know I'm not the only one who's felt forced to walk into a church building, slap on a smile, and keep it together for an hour and a half.  I'm sad because when I share these events with others, more than a few respond with an eye-roll and a sarcastic, "Christians really know how to shoot the wounded".  Really?  Is this who you really are??  Is this what you really want to communicate to people who are desperate for genuine human connection and true purpose in life???  Is this really your interpretation of following the Creator of the universe??

Please.say.it's.not.

Again, in higher moments, I'm able to say, "I was just an unfortunate and unintended casualty."  "You didn't mean it."  "It was so awkward, how were you supposed to respond?"

But,

Is that really good enough?? What about others?  I mean, if my personal pain and tragedy were overlooked, who's else are you missing?  Who's else have you already forgotten?  I (barely) made it out okay.  God graciously provided me with a solid foundation of knowledge of Him and a few caring people around me to carry me through.  But not everyone is as fortunate as I was.  It makes me sick to think about the people that we (the capital "c" Church) turn our backs on everyday: people who are different than us; people who's problems are too big or too uncomfortable; people who don't help themselves (because, of course, God helps those who help themselves ... and no one else?), people who take up "too much" time or "too much" emotional energy.  What about these people?  Where did they go when they went fleeing, dejected and wounded?

Ugh.  I didn't intend for this letter to be an exposé on Shortcomings in the American Church, but alas.  Yes, I'm hurt.  Yes, I was wounded. And yes, I'll be fine.  But I fear for those who aren't as fortunate as I.  And, if I'm really honest with myself, some of these pangs are not actually pangs of bitterness or resentment, they might actually be pangs of guilt - for times when I've done a pretty good job of shooting some wounded myself.

Lordhavemercy.

Julie