Girl Gone Wild

by Nicole Bristol

"What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear." The words of my favorite hymn washed over me and my heart gave a leap of joy. Though musical talent is not my gift, I sang out with loud conviction. I was sure my sincerity was unmatched by any of the canary-robed choir members who stood guard behind the pulpit.

As the hymns wound down and the kids were dismissed to children's church, I let my mind wander to the murky future. I had no doubt that in a few short years I would have my own little scampering monkey to send down that aisle. While I listened to the sermon, he's listen to the old tales of Noah, Joseph, Peter and Paul. I wasn't married, but the congregation had several devout young men who were in need of a wife. My life partner would surely come from a good Christian home and we'd live a life of honesty, integrity and good Christian service. We'd never miss a Sunday service and would probably even be Sunday school teachers or youth leaders.

I had it all planned out from the time I was eight or nine. My parents were not Christians, but I was sent to church with my cousins from a very young age. Church captivated me. The stories of the Bible brought to life a very real and harsh God. I lived in fear of Him, though I also was comforted by the promise of Heaven. The rules set forth by the Bible made life make sense. People who went to church were good and if I continued to go to church I would be good and good things would happen to me. My love for Jesus would keep the devil at bay.

I did all the things a good church girl should do--went to church camps, pledged to remain a virgin until my wedding night, attended a Christian college and spent many, many hours of service in various Christian charities. I painted, handed out meals, babysat rowdy youngsters, organized youth parties, and led singing at nursing home services. I was all Christian, all the time. Drinking and partying never tempted me. I was too busy getting a feel-good high from good deeds.

It's been over six years since I've darkened the door of a church. My passion for Christ burned out. There's not even a smoldering coal left in my heart.

It happened little by little, in steps so small that I can't even name a moment when I stopped believing the myth that I'd held on to so tightly for so many years.

I graduated from college and started an emotionally grueling job dealing with at-risk teenagers. The church still expected me to devote as many volunteer hours as I had previously and no one seemed to understand that I needed to have my soul refreshed on Sunday mornings, not sucked out of me by charitable obligations. The pastor tutted his tongue at me and told me if I just loved the Lord I would find the strength to carry on. The little old ladies hugged me and told me Jesus would give me the strength to continue teaching Sunday school classes. Surely a young whipper-snapper like me had more energy to devote to such an endeavor than a group of little old ladies.

But I didn't have the energy. I was exhausted from working 12-hour days with troubled youth. The last thing I wanted to do on my day off was deal with even more troubled youth. Everyone promised me that God wouldn't give me more than I could bear, but the congregation was only too happy to pile the obligations on my already breaking back.

Something in me snapped and instead of seeing my volunteer work as a joy and a gift to God Himself, I began to see it as work. Work that I wasn't being paid for. Work that people didn't even appreciate.

I was being used, and I don't like to be used.

The first Sunday that I skipped church I expected to be felled by lightening. I felt so guilty that I didn't leave the house. The phone rang and I refused to answer it. I didn't want to talk to anyone, especially if they might confront me about my church truancy.

After that, it became easier and easier to miss church. I'd feel pangs of guilt only when I'd run into the pastor or one of my former church friends. I noticed they didn't ask how I was or seem to really care about my emotional crises. They just wanted to know when I was going to go back to church. I am not trying to paint Christians as being uncaring people, but frankly the people of my congregation struck me as incredibly cold. I didn't feel cared about or loved at all. I felt like they were missing my service and not me.

Then I met my husband.

I'd always sworn that I would never, ever even consider dating a non-Christian man, but I met David and couldn't resist his charms. He was sweet. He cared about me. He was smart, funny, honest and nice. He was most assuredly not a son of the devil. I never knew that a non-Christian person could be "good." I was brainwashed to believe that non-Christian was synonymous with whisky-guzzling wife beater. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

For the first time in my life I really felt loved and supported. I felt guilty on Sunday mornings, but not guilty enough to try to drag David to church or even to go by myself.

I still was living under the illusion that I was a Christian and I still prayed, but I couldn't bring myself to seek out a church. I told myself that it was just as easy to worship alone as it was in a group. I didn't want to admit that everything I'd ever believed in had come to mean nothing to me.

My loss of faith reached crisis point when David was offered a once-in-a-lifetime job across the country and decided to take it. He asked me to move along, but I didn't have the funds to make a move on my own. The solution seemed so simple, yet it rocked me to the core of my being: we'd move in together... without the benefit of marriage. We loved each other, but we weren't quite ready for that big of a commitment.

Even though I had stopped going to church, I still considered myself a very moral person and told myself that I'd never do anything to lose that part of my being. Why, then, was it so easy to move in with a man without a second's hesitation? I worried what my family and friends would say, but I never once worried about the state of my soul. It was rather jarring to discover that I didn't expect to be hit by a bolt of lightning because I no longer believed God existed at all.

It's been five years since I did the thing I could never imagine myself doing and I'm still here and happier than ever--and married with children. Growing up, I believed that people who "lived in sin" were the worst kind of tramps, but you know what? Now that I've been on the other side I've come to the conclusion that all the focus on sex is just a smokescreen. I can't think of a single good reason why anyone should care who is sleeping with whom as long as the partners are consenting adults who care for themselves, each other, and their physical and mental health.

In many ways, my life is exactly like I pictured it. I'm married to an honest, kind man. We live a life of integrity. We donate to charitable causes and volunteer at charitable events. We teach our children the value of hard work and sharing. We follow the basic rules of life that every major religion teaches: do no harm.

Church is the only missing component and at this point in my life I can't imagine going back. But then again, I've learned to never say never.