god loves you, but not enough to save you

I’ve come to miss the smell of my old church, that burned incense, thick and suffocating, frankincense and myrrh, woody and earthy, sweet like something from beyond, something you could only experience behind its heavy, holy doors. I miss my fingers lingering, painting, gliding over, puddling in the holy water, hiding under the guise of maturity as I locked eyes with the priest and streaked it across my forehead, my lips, my heart with a strong, steady, damp, lying thumb—the Sign of the Cross. I miss the sight of stained glass glowing dimly in a dozen different colors, crafted so carefully and earnestly, beautiful and radiant, painting the very stories we would come to hear; I miss having to crane my head up high to see the priest, the podium, the Son of God up on the cross in the center, the candles, the choir, the holy, heavy Gospel. I miss the comfort of community, of neighbors, of sitting between strangers, of the closeness of bodies, of the feel of another person’s warmth radiating close by, of the intrigue, of the tension, of the stakes, of the waiting game, of glances, of soft, sweet, friendly smiles, of hands clasped and held and shaken before the doubt set in, before touches became something strange, something to desire or to fear, before people were something to shy away from, before respect was leveled on a scale, weighed and tested and failed, time after time. I miss the songs, the organ, the music, the rising and falling, the hums and hymns, the volume, the rising chimes of familiarity, voices loud, voices quiet, voices everywhere, together, singing the same songs. I would say I miss bowing my head and praying like it meant something, like I was heard, like I had meaning, like my mortal fears could be quelled, like my questions would be answered, only that part, I will admit, is somewhat of a blur—what exactly did I ever ask of my God in those days? I remember only one thing; I know I asked to hear Him, to know Him, to feel Him—in my early teen years, I found myself lost and angry and afraid and desperate, desperate to keep believing. Give me a sign, I would pray, time after time, before my prayers turned to pleas, then to harsh, vapid commands—give me a sign, Lord, and I will know I am wrong; I’ll know you are here with me. But no such sign ever came, and if it had, it passed me by in a blink, a flashing, fleeting moment. Yet the whole time, my eyes were bared to the world before me, and I did not feel Him; I felt nothing but the throb of my own heart, beating, beating, beating in a silent room, a room turned sour rather than sweet, nauseating with the bend of knee, the blind-eyed faith of others, all hearing, all seeing, all knowing a Lord who would not hear me, who would not know me, who would not see me as I was—a room that turned such silences to song with a single cue, with a jolt like a flinch rather than a whimsical transition, a room in which people praised and loved a God that I could not keep pretending to feel. Even so, I miss the pretending, too, before I saw it for what it was—the hard, cold surface of the pew, my hands clasped in prayer, focused, eyes shut, trying, hoping, wishing, praying to be known, to be felt, to be forgiven, to be loved unconditionally by something far, far away.

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Title is from the song Sun Bleached Flies by Ethel Cain :) And the photo is from my real childhood church, for an ounce of nostalgia and realism.

Thank you for reading!