How many of us have been hurt by someone in the past? If you were honest with yourself, you would raise your hand along with me. What happens when we get hurt? Personally, I start putting up walls for protection. Why? Am I being rude if I take those precautions? The human psychology is certainly an interesting one, isn’t it?
I remember that a couple of years ago, there was a church whose community I took part in for about six months. It was a different church than the one I had taken part in for the previous two years—in fact, it was the one I attended after the one I wrote about for this publication two years ago. Anyway, to get involved with them early on, I took part in their Bible study group with a diverse crowd of varying ages, stages of life, and races. It was a fresh start; putting aside all presumptions and fears, I took a chance. Needless to say, the first three months were great!
For those three months, I really felt at home within the community. The personalities were all different, yet somehow meshed together like a melting pot. People were friendly, kind, and intentional—something that was lacking in the previous church. This was also a season of my life when I was debating whether I should stay in San Antonio or move away from there. The options I were considering were Tennessee, Florida, Wyoming, and Dallas (where the family of a high school friend had offered me a place to stay). San Antonio was the very last option, as the pile of bad memories from my childhood to my mid-twenties outweighed the good. However, this church community was making it difficult to leave. Their actions matched what they preached; and when someone backs up their talk with actions, they earn my trust. It was the first time I had that sense of belonging since becoming an adult. It appeared that I could bring my walls down, allowing these people to see my humanity—to see the flaws and the strongholds of sin I had, including my depression.
If you have read my previous articles, you know that depression is not an unfamiliar subject for me; but I have never gone into detail with it, either. My depressive episodes can get intense when the right buttons are pushed, as was the case when I was beginning to exit the military. When I finished my last day of work, there wasn’t a peep from anyone, despite me having made it known that it was going to be my last day putting on a uniform. Granted, I am not one for the spotlight; yet this set off a trigger. Throughout my adulthood, especially when it came to my career, it appeared that nobody was there when it mattered the most. When I graduated basic training? Nobody. Saying goodbye when I left for deployment? Nobody. When I returned home? Nobody. And in fact, I would see all of those people getting the exact opposite treatment, with others going out of their way to be there for them. It made me feel alone. Thus, this set off a trigger for me to enter a stage of severe depression. The devil was attacking me nonstop all the way to my Thursday night fellowship with the Bible study group. They had earned my trust, right? Was it time to open up about my struggles? All of this would be answered in a two-week time period.
That Thursday after my last day of work, I had kept to myself, uttering few words other than responding whenever someone spoke to me. And even then, it was curt. At the end of night before everyone went home, we would all get little slips of paper on which to write down our prayer requests. We had the option to keep it anonymous or to put our name down, but our slips would go to someone else so they could pray for us. That was the idea. I wrote mine down, anonymously opening up about the severity of my depression—praying for a miracle. I broke down crying not too long after writing that. I was tired of the reminders of how lonesome San Antonio felt. It was painful, and I wanted that pain to end. The people in the room rallied around me and offered comfort, showing the love, kindness, and support my soul had longed for. My trust for them grew, but I felt very vulnerable. I had never done that before—which created insecurities, like wondering whether their perception of me changed. The devil took full advantage of that through one of their associate pastors.
It was that same Thursday night. I decided to head home, feeling emotionally exhausted. I had just pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex when the pastor called. Apparently, the person who had received my slip connected the dots that the prayer request was from me, given that I had just sobbed and was very distant all night. The conversation with the pastor was decent, until he asked whether I wrote that anonymous request for attention. (Even when I sobbed, there was no mention of my depression from my mouth.) That was the first attack. The second attack came at the end of the week, when the youth pastor was forced to put me on the sidelines and informed volunteering to help for their youth group’s camp was not feasible. Then they brought in another associate pastor the next Thursday to “see how the group was doing.” Say what you want, but that was not a coincidence. I remain reserved, only speaking when spoken to. I didn’t know how to interact after being vulnerable, especially after seeing how the devil was attacking me through their pastoral leadership. Because of this, I became more reluctant to talk. My trust was quickly deteriorating. It left me feeling more exposed than safe. The following Monday, the same associate pastor who had called me the first time informed that I was no longer welcome in the group, because people felt “uncomfortable” being around me. “But please come to our church!” Trust officially broken.
I sent a text later in the day to the group chat with all the people in the Bible study. It was a decent paragraph, apologizing for the uncomfortable environment my mental health had created. About half of the group reached out, a couple of which stayed in touch for maybe a month, while one maintained communication until the beginning of 2022. I tried to reach out to some of the members of that church that were not part of the group, yet never heard back from them. This further solidified my sentiments about San Antonio and Texas all together. There was too much history of brokenness that had taken place in that state. That stunt was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It was time for a change: time to go home to Florida.
In the meantime, I felt like the oxygen to find a church community had been sucked right out of my soul into the atmosphere. Since being a junior in high school, every church community I took part in felt alien. The interactions that took place were mostly superficial, besides maybe maintaining relationships with a few people at a time for only brief periods. This last church in San Antonio revalidated my sentiments about the Christian community as a whole. Why get involved in a community if all that ever happens is getting slapped across the face? Why get involved if every time my walls begin to go down, people turn the other direction? It was not enough to move out of Texas; I needed a break from church altogether.
Thus, when I moved back to Florida, there was a sense of renewal. This was the state in which I was saved. Sure, there was history there; however, the good far outweighed the bad. So, for the next year and a half, that was my time to heal—heal from the past six years of hurt from both inside and outside of the church. I attended a Southern Baptist church with a lukewarm attitude. I went because it was God’s house, but was I going to make an attempt to interact with the people there? Nope! I was going to show up and leave. There were times when I left before the service ended just to avoid the interaction. God knew how much healing needed to take place in me before being convicted to be in a community again. I spent more time with my friends and family who never judged me. There may be a Christian who would take issue with that approach, but that needed to take place, however it felt nice to feel wanted from the people I trusted already; the church was not somewhere I had similar sentiments.
There were several moments God used to bring healing, one of which may sound minuscule, however it was not to me. See, I did not originally have plans for Halloween my first year back in Florida. There were no expectations from me as far as being invited to do something, yet my best friend Matt reached out when I least expected. It was simply a movie night; however due to the fact that during those six years in San Antonio, it felt like nobody cared, the invitation carried a heavier weight. He knew I did not have plans, given I was somewhat starting fresh; then he decided to reach out another time. Again, to the naked eye this does not seem like much, but this lifted my spirits and further validated that I made the right choice to return home.
Then what about church? Isn’t being part of the body of Christ the core of who I am? Here is what is ironic: it was because of people outside the church that I desired that community again. Why? Because we did not have that in common! The heart and soul of my identity is rooted in Christ. The time spent with friends and family was being used by God to rejuvenate my spirit to seek something beyond lukewarm. The thing was, I was still afraid to move on from the current church I attended. God had to bring someone into my life to give me the final push to walk through that door. As part of the “rebuild” process, God convicted me to use the internet to meet that someone—another area of life that had a history of hurt as well. There were no expectations, but there was a wonderful human being I decided was worth sending one little message. One message led to having an ongoing four-month conversation! But in the midst of that, God used her to give me the final nudge to take that chance of a new start again. She voluntarily helped me find a church that may have been better suited to worship. Ultimately I settled with a church that was completely out of my comfort zone. The church had the word “Orthodox” in front of it—not really the kind of environment I was used to in the Christian world. Nevertheless, the alarm was set, and I was ready to attend my first service the next morning.
Upon walking into the building, there was a presence that indicated this was God’s house. This reverence was something that was lacking in the churches in San Antonio (at least the ones I attended). Alas, that was the first service I had attended in *years* where the message stuck with me—even to this day, I remember what the sermon was about. The people in the building sang as if they wanted Christ to walk into that building. Individuals from all sorts of backgrounds, coming together to worship God. Granted, as of now I am only attending Sunday service, but that lukewarm mindset dissipated. One small moment of taking an opportunity to build upon my new life turned out to have a drastic impact with my relationship with the church. And within that choice, that wonderful human being taking it upon herself to not allow me to find a new church by myself displayed that intentional action that had been missing during those six years in San Antonio. Two years since that move, my life is looking very different. There’s more joy and optimism. Imagine if I had closed myself off to the doors God had opened to “rebuild!” The intentional love that my soul longed for could easily still be deprived today if it weren’t for God providing those pathways.
I believe that it was because of their love that I was able to heal. God used familiar faces to bring me back to a healthy state of mind. Then, for the last few months of 2022, God brought in a new person with a whole slew of fresh hearts who accepted me for the flawed sinner I am. And as of the beginning of 2023, one of my New Year’s resolutions is to be involved in a community again, even going so far as wanting to have a relationship with the pastor at the new church I am attending. Why did I open myself up again to that potential?
I tell you this story because there are times in all of our lives where someone hurt us. When they do, we seek refuge to avoid the hurt again. It took me almost two years to heal from that experience at the last church I attended in San Antonio. I still haven’t healed from the wounds from my time there, both with mental health and still having trust issues with people. And despite being a Christian, admittedly loving my neighbor does not come easy. Why put myself out there to love a neighbor who has the capability to hurt me? Yet, do I not also have the capacity to hurt someone? Do I not also have the capability to break someone’s expectations? Absolutely! Learning this has been part of the healing process. Chances are high that there are people who have been negatively impacted by my actions, needing to heal themselves. But what makes the human experience worthwhile is the courage to take another chance! God still has both you and I on this earth? Then there is a reason why He has not taken us home yet. Why live as if the world stopped spinning whenever we get hurt? That does not mean we don’t ever take a step back—in fact, take your time. We will always be healing from past hurt; it just gets replaced with something else once one is fully healed. Yet, God always provides individuals to bring us out of a bad place. Faces that will walk us through the storm to remind us God is still in control. There will always be a risk of getting hurt, but there is just as much of a chance of blessings awaiting on the other side of that coin. The question remains, which will you choose?
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