Chap. 8 - I was Safe but not Free

19 Jun, 2025

"The wound is the place where the Light enters you." Rumi

In my young life, there was one place that felt safe: the church.

Raised Methodist in a small-town congregation, I found sanctuary in the choir, Sunday School classes, and children's events. The people were kind. I could sing loudly and joyfully, perform in pageants, and best of all—my mother never disapproved of my involvement.

At Christmas, we visited hospital patients and sang carols, and we went door-to-door, bringing songs to the homes of fellow church members. I was in my element. Singing brought me joy, and being with adults and children who made me feel seen and protected was a gift beyond words.

I especially loved our outings to the roller skating rink. On certain Sunday evenings, the church group would go together, and I’d dance on wheels to the beat of very hip music. It felt like freedom. Moving to music came as naturally to me as walking. I didn’t need a partner—sometimes, partners only slowed me down. Even into my seventies, if dance music was playing, I was on the move.

The church gave me a home—somewhere I could sing, dance, and be appreciated for simply being me.

There was another gift hidden in those Sunday evenings. Coming home after skating, I often found the house unusually quiet. It was the one night of the week when a hush settled over everything. My parents had recovered from Saturday night’s drinking and fighting. The hangovers had passed. Everyone was exhaling.

When I walked in, Mom didn’t scream, “Where were you?!” with her usual fury. I could say “hi” and maybe get a nod or glance from my brother. The family would be watching TV. We all took our cue from Mom. That quiet—thin and temporary as it was—felt like what “home” was supposed to be.

I didn’t yet know it was just the calm before the next storm. But compared to the rest of the week, it felt like peace. I let myself believe, just for a moment, that maybe the insanity was over.

I was wrong.

Still, the church planted something in me. A longing. A blueprint.

I wouldn’t have called it faith back then. I just knew that when I was there, I could breathe. I belonged. I could sing without fear, dance without shame. And I began to believe, deep in my bones, that this feeling of ease, of joy—that must be what God feels like.

So decades later, when my life unraveled—when old traumas I thought I’d outrun began to surface as anxiety attacks, emotional spirals, and the slow erosion of my sense of self—I went searching for that feeling again.

Not with roller skates and Christmas carols this time, but with serious spiritual tools. I studied A Course in Miracles. I practiced meditation and forgiveness. I read mystical texts. I tried to let go.

And sometimes, I did feel something vast and loving—something that lifted me out of the fear and made me feel profoundly free. Not like the gentle joys of childhood skating or singing, but something deeper. Something eternal. I came to understand these moments as mystical experiences.

The first one came when I was just a girl, maybe eleven or twelve, at an afterschool Bible study. At the end of our time, the woman leading the group asked if anyone wanted to give their life to Jesus. It was a familiar invitation in our church, and that day, I raised my hand.

I walked to the front of the room, and something unexpected happened. I felt free. I felt alive in a way I never had before. Not just emotionally—but spiritually, cosmically, viscerally alive. It was as if I had stepped into the presence of something vast and holy, and it welcomed me.

That feeling stayed with me … until I got home. I walked in the door, radiant, and said to my mother, “I’ve been saved!” She turned to me and shouted, “Why are you late!” Just like that, the door slammed shut. The light vanished. And I didn’t know how to find it again.

But decades later, when I was unraveling—still going to work each day while silently carrying waves of terror—those moments of light returned. Not often, and never for long, but just enough. My mind would lift, the anxiety, the fear, would recede, and I would remember that freedom again. That aliveness.

🪷 Even in the middle of despair, grace still found me.

But even with these glimpses of grace, I noticed a painful disconnect…

I could speak fluently about God, love, and peace. But I couldn’t show up for the parts of me that were still in pain.

I could say things like “I am not this body” or “All things are lessons God would have me learn”—but I couldn’t bear to look at the terrified little girl inside me, the one who still flinched at raised voices.

I had bypassed her.

I had climbed a ladder of spiritual truth and left her at the bottom, alone and crying in the dark.

At some point, I had to come down.

It was humbling to realize that my devotion—sincere as it was—had become a hiding place. That I had used beautiful spiritual truths to avoid the raw, aching mess of my human pain. That I had turned God into a concept instead of a companion.

But the truth is, that little girl who sang her heart out in church still lives in me. And now, instead of trying to transcend her suffering, I sit with her. I listen. I let her sing, dance, rage, grieve, and rest.

And it turns out—God is here too.

Not only in the light, but in the dark. Not only in the hymns, but in the heartbreak.

⬅️ Chap. 7
➡️ Chap. 8a
⬆️ Return to Hub List

🕊 A Living Memoir

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