My story is not my own. I can only take credit for the chapters that led me away from my faith. God knew this before He formed me. He knew the path I would take and He pursued me. Relentlessly. He never gave up.
My story is God’s story. It is a story of redemption, of a lost sheep finding her way home.
For a season, my story reflected the world around me. I identified as a Christian but lacked a relationship with God. This didn’t seem important; I knew God existed. This belief coupled with my attempts to do “mostly” good allowed me to blend in with my surroundings. A human chameleon, changing her colors to avoid being seen.
I stopped attending church entirely after my first daughter made her appearance. It just became too difficult. I didn’t believe I needed church, anyway. Most of the time, I didn’t understand the homily. I was never able to truly connect with the message. Sundays became a day to spend lazily at home, with my little family. For over four years, I didn’t step foot in a church unless it was a holiday.
Looking back, I can see the impact of this spiritual separation. Anxiety and self-doubt filled every fiber of my being. I felt insecure as a parent, as a wife, as a daughter, and as a friend. I never had energy. I allowed toxic thoughts to control my mind. Though I wouldn’t have thought it true at the time, something was missing. I longed for the missing piece of the puzzle but I didn’t know what it looked like.
Praise God, my story didn’t end there.