I was invited to a women's Christian conference with a large group of girls. It was a two-day event so I was hoping that it would be entertaining and uplifting. That's what the ad said when I looked into it. It was described as an uplifting, life-changing and life-enhancing event. Several of my friends were annual attendees, and I was curious and willing to allow myself such an opportunity. What could it hurt? Well, it turns out that it could hurt. I'm not saying that it was a bad thing.... There were a lot of powerful messages and shared experiences that resonated with me. There were also some messages and experiences that made me very emotional and I was somehow unprepared for that. I didn't really want to be emotional on this particular trip. I wanted to cheer. I wanted to be happy. I had been feeling very happy for the last few months and I wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. I had previously been struggling with mild depression and anxiety and I was glad it had passed. I didn't want to have a cry-fest. But I cried. And I cried. I'm not a stranger to my emotions. I cry pretty easily with others and for others, but for some reason, I was not embracing the feeling in an altogether positive way. I found myself a little disappointed that this uplifting and enhancing experience had to be so...lovingly painful.
During the concert segment of the event, the words of one particular song were very loving and sweet. So why was I crying? Am I broken? I didn't think so. I looked out into the massive crowd around me and I suddenly felt so overwhelmed with all of their emotions. Was it their emotions or was I projecting my own feelings onto them? Because it really felt like there was a radiating and permeating sadness in the air. I am a frequent concert goer, so this experience was a severe contrast to that. Instead of smoke in the air, there was palpable love and pain in the air. Instead of a drunken, dancing, carefree mass, there was an eerie stillness and concern, a directed and purposeful energy in the atmosphere. Maybe that's why it struck me as so strange and confusing. I thought I could feel all of their pain hitting me and piercing me. I felt all of their love. Pain from love. They were hurting because they loved. Is that right? Or was I hurting because I love? Loving because I have hurt?
The female speakers were great, and I appreciated their stories and messages a lot. They made me really think, and laugh, and cry. It was a lot to take in. Some of the participants in the conference were entertainers, mood lighteners and I appreciated them very much. There was a male comedian that I just loved. One of the male speakers mentioned that he was affected by all of the estrogen in the room. I think he was kidding, but I think he was serious too. Now and then when I shifted my focus from the stage to the crowd, I'd think for a second that I saw a man, or maybe I was just half-expecting to see men blended into the crowd because I have never been in an arena filled with only women--thousands and thousands of bleeding hearts, of soaring hearts, of exposed hearts. Maybe we needed some men. Is that okay to say? I think so. I think maybe that's what God thought when he made two sexes, that we need each other to balance our energy. If there had been men in the room, would I have found comfort in their strength? Would they have been strong or would they have been swept under the blanket of all of that guided and directed energy, intended to break us down and build us up at the same time?
I'm a Presbyterian, so I am not all that comfortable with being so raw and emotional when I gather for worship. I don't know about all Presbyterian churches, but in mine, we tend to talk about the Bible and God at arm's length. That is not to say that Presbyterians are stone cold. Let me explain if I can. I believe that each member has a personal walk with God, moments with God, and in prayer with God in which we expose our personal emotions. But when we gather on Sundays, we discuss the Bible. We discuss Jesus. We learn about life and about the lives of those who have gone before us. We ask ourselves how we can use these passages and concepts in our own lives. We always "take a moment for silent, personal confession," and we find comfort in "the assurance of pardon: in Jesus Christ, we are forgiven." But we do not announce our personal burdens in our services. We do not give our testimonies. I cannot recall a time in my church's service that I have cried (except when I was pregnant and I cried over every thing). We don't discuss Hell or even Heaven as they pertain to us. For me, there is not a real sense of urgency or intensity of any kind. Some people say that Presbyterians don't feel anything, but of course we feel. In our daily lives, there is urgency and intensity of plenty. In our church, there is serenity. There is peace and comfort. One of my favorite scriptures is Psalm 46:10: "Be still and know that I am God." We don't express our desire to get to Heaven or our aversion to Hell. We acknowledge their existence, but for some reason, we don't mention them. I'm not disappointed...maybe because I don't want to be made afraid or uncomfortable. I want to study about how to get the most out of my life while I'm here and not think too much about what will happen when it's over. Life is brief and heaven is eternity. I'll have plenty of time to learn about Heaven when I'm there. As for Hell, I just prefer not to dwell on damnation and suffering.
But I digress. Back to the conference. Although I was told that there were all denominations present, non-denominations and even some non-believers, there were moments that I felt a little foreign. I felt like the majority of the women in the arena were accustomed to a more modern format of worship. There were hand-raisers all over and I got the feeling that most in the room knew the words to most of the songs that were played by the intermission band. I didn't know any, but I enjoyed the music. I have visited lots of different churches in my life and I find things I like about every one. I like exposing myself to different situations. I like learning about how my friends worship. I shared a little of my resistance to the emotional out-pour and my friend seemed a little confused as to what I was implying. I wasn't sure either. This was not my first encounter in this way of worship and I wasn't really sure why I was having such a resistance. I briefly explained that we are less emotional at my church and she offered a comforting, "I should come try your church some time." And the most horrible words came out of my mouth. I said, "You probably wouldn't like it." Why did I say that? I wish I hadn't because I would love for her to come visit my church. I guess I was just feeling very different from every one around me, isolated, but surrounded by love somehow. I didn't mean it in an unkind way. I just couldn't help feeling overwhelmed while I was there in the arena, and as I said, I had recently been relieved of my depression and anxiety spell. I think that as I was so unwelcoming of my tears, I said an unwelcoming thing to a friend that I love very much. I tried to take it back and rephrase it, but I didn't have the words that I needed. I hope she understands and forgives me.
I missed my husband and my kids and I hadn't contacted or heard from them. When I got home, I felt heavy. I don't think I was smiling much. I felt drained and still felt a bit sad from having cried a lot. We ate dinner and talked about their weekend. Then I laid on the couch and felt like I was going to cry again. And Rodney listened as I talked it out. I felt confused by all of the things I was feeling at once. I am still trying to process all that I took away from the conference (which, by the way, I find an inaccurate term). I learned a lot. I think my focus sharpened on how and what I want to teach my children, what I want the focus of my life to be now and what it has been. That's worth every second of discomfort that I felt, right? Spiritual growth can be uncomfortable. Maybe it even must be. I learned that I don't focus my attention on God in my life first and foremost as the Bible says you should. I focus on my family for the most part. God has not been my primary source of joy; it's been my family. I don't think I know how to change that. How do I learn to direct my attention away from myself and my life and focus on God first? I feel like I have learned to listen for God's voice in my life, but for me it is a whisper. I find it difficult enough to keep my focus on my family rather than all of the other distractions in my life. How will I focus more, focus harder on God on top of this? That will be a challenge, and I, to be perfectly honest, do not want to become obsessed with religion, or to feel like I must be in order to please Him. I feel God in my life always, in my heart, in my children's faces, and in all that surrounds me: in the trees in the grass and in the moon and sun and stars--everywhere I go; I know He is there. I hope this is enough. I learned that my husband and I need to discuss how we want to teach our kids about God, what we want to share and how to share it.
And then Rodney shared his perspective on God and religion, which is a rare share for him, and I felt so safe and comforted by it. We are a lot alike in the way we feel about our faith and I really appreciated him reaffirming that for me, reminding me of that sense of togetherness and understanding that we share. He unburdened me of worry and of inadequacy. He just took it off of me and now I feel like myself again. I can sit down and write this blog post and know that no matter what, God loves me, my husband loves me, my kids love me, and my mom and dad love me, and just love, love, love. And I'm not crying. I didn't have to cry to write this and I have clarity and partnership, family and community.
I can be still...and know that I am loved.
