Mom, They Won’t Let Me in.

I was eleven when I first fell in love with church music. The choir’s voices seemed to float effortlessly, each note was a prayer that soared straight to the heavens. I admired their precision, harmony, and the way their hymns filled the cavernous space with something divine. I wanted to be part of it. Not just to sing but to belong.

I had already completed reading the Bible up to the Gospel of Matthew at that age. I was deeply committed to my faith — a zealous young believer who never missed Sunday service and read scripture as diligently as I did in schoolbooks. But I was also a child, and children miss things. I had missed the choir’s official application date, a small oversight that felt monumental at the time. I told myself I’d apply next year, even though I would be considered too old, by the church’s standards by then. Despite this, I stayed hopeful, watching the choir kids practice whenever I could. I adored their music from afar.

The Lord’s Home is Cold

One late Friday after school, I was waiting for my mom, who was part of the congregation and attending a meeting. She had instructed me to sit on the church steps and wait. But then I heard the choir practicing — those familiar voices, pulling me like a moth to flame. The church wasn’t a foreign place to me. Everyone knew my mom and me well. So, I wandered inside, quietly standing by a corner outside the choir room door. I was careful to stay out of sight, not wanting to distract them.

But then one of the youth instructors saw me. Her face twisted in disapproval as she walked briskly toward me. Without a word, she grabbed my arm and yanked me outside. I didn’t protest. I was too stunned. She led me back to the church steps and said curtly, “Stop disturbing my godly angels.” Her words stung, but I nodded obediently, believing I had done something wrong.

It began to rain soon after. The drops came heavy and sudden, soaking everything in minutes. I hesitated to go back inside, fearing I’d upset them again. When the rain grew unbearable, I finally relented but avoided the choir room entirely. Instead, I found a quiet spot on the stairs leading to the basement. I sat there, doodling and humming softly, trying to pass the time.

The Second Rejection

Not long after, a different youth instructor found me. She didn’t ask why I was there. She didn’t speak with kindness. Instead, she yanked me up by my arm, her grip firm and punishing, and dragged me back outside into the rain. This time, she handed me a piece of paper and some crayons. “Play with these,” she said dismissively, before walking away. I stood there in the downpour, holding the soggy paper and crayons, feeling small and unwanted.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I called my mom, crying, “Mom, they won’t let me into the church.”

“Good. Maybe you don’t deserve to be there,” She said.

Looking back, it’s hard to reconcile the fervor of my young faith with the coldness of those moments. At the time, I believed I was at fault. Perhaps I truly had distracted the choir, or maybe I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. However, as the years passed and I attended different churches, I began to see things differently.

I realized that some churches prioritize performance over faith. The choir wasn’t just about praising God; it was about perfection. The youth instructors didn’t see a child eager to worship; they saw an inconvenience. Everything had to be polished, including the voices raised to heaven. And mine? Well, mine wasn’t good enough.

I’ll admit — I’ve never been a great singer. I’m not tone-deaf, but certainly not choir material. My young voice, untrained and imperfect, couldn’t compete with the polished harmonies they prized. But it wasn’t just my singing that disqualified me. It was the culture.

As I grew older, other things began to stick out. I noticed how some churchgoers treated communion wine more like a fine vintage to critique than a sacred symbol of Christ’s sacrifice. They grumbled about the money “wasted” whenever the church’s sound system malfunctioned during a sermon. They hoarded ornaments and flower arrangements after services as if they were owed to them. Even the coffee in the breakroom wasn’t spared from their complaints.

The children were no different. Church became a competition stage. Who wore the fanciest outfits? Who had the most decorative Bible with the most intricate bookmarks? It wasn’t about faith; it was about appearances.

Reclaiming Faith

For a long time, I struggled with the contradictions I saw. How could a place that preached love and acceptance be so unwelcoming? How could people who claimed to follow Christ’s teachings behave with such pettiness and cruelty? The experience left scars on my faith, making me question not just the church but God Himself.

But faith is a resilient thing. Over time, I understood that God isn’t confined to a building or a congregation. He isn’t in the polished performances or the gilded ornaments. God is in the quiet, unassuming moments of grace and kindness — the things I had been searching for but couldn’t find in that church.

My Faith Now

Today, I still believe in God, but I’ve learned to be discerning about where I seek Him. Not every church is a sanctuary, and not every believer practices what they preach. My faith no longer depends on choir harmonies or stained-glass windows. It lives in the love I show to others and the kindness I extend to myself.

To the little girl I was, sitting in the rain with crayons and a soggy piece of paper, I want to say: You were always worthy. You didn’t need a choir or a congregation to prove that. God saw you then, just as He sees you now, and HE loves you — imperfect singing and all.