Church is always an emotional landmine for me. I enter the sanctuary, wary and on guard. Fearful the smallest, most innocuous phrase will bring tears to my eyes and block my voice. Things most Christians take for granted and don’t give a second thought, send me over the edge. Certain events often bring on inappropriate emotional responses that are disproportional to the moment.

Like taking communion. I know in my head that God will not strike me dead for taking it if I have some unknown sin in my life, but my heart fears and trembles as I approach the altar to partake. As I head back to my seat, I have to fight my stomach to keep the bite of bread and sip of wine down. I finally stopped taking communion because I simply could not bring myself to do it. The emotional and physical ramifications were not worth it. Shortly after no longer taking communion, I stopped going to the church we were attending because of the judgmental looks and eye nudges I would get when I wouldn’t partake.

So I switched and dragged the kids to a smaller church that I had heard wonderful things about. The congregation seems to live the ideals that are shared on the church’s website. They don’t care what you do or do not do during church. What you wear is not an issue — most folks are in jeans and a t-shirt but they’re not a trendy statement, if that makes sense. I’m greeted with genuine smiles and warm handshakes, but no one shows up on my doorstep Monday with a plate of brownies, asking me to join their small group taking place on Wednesday nights. I’m not bribed with free coffee mugs and slogan-laden pens in exchange for my e-mail and home mailing address. Instead, I shake hands with faces that are slowly becoming familiar and am reminded by the person giving announcements that if we want to get involved, there’s a calendar of activities on the website with a list of contacts.

I’m cautiously hopeful.  These last few Sundays have been a balm to my terribly wounded spirit. I’ve heard people joke about spiritual abuse and how it’s not possible. I beg to differ. My ability to relate to my God has been irrevocably damaged. I come before Him cringing, my heart pounding in my chest. I fear the next way He will test me and my faith in Him, despite my exhaustion and depression. How can I prove my love to this almighty, unfathomable Being? How can I ever be good enough to be offered a moment of peace, of respite, of true joy? Because, God knows, I need one.

And then I’m furious.

Furious at my childhood and my upbringing. Bitter that the church I was raised in compromised my heart so much. I cry, internally, for the state of my soul. For I know in my mind that all those fears are unfounded, unbiblical, UNGOD. The flow and connection between my heart, spirit, soul, and mind are forever blockaded and only letting small, fragmented bits through. I can’t turn my back on the core, basic beliefs I was raised with because I believe them to be truth.

What I do turn my back on is the harsh, cold, unloving God who demands more than anyone can ever give but tells us He never asks more than we can handle. I turn my back on the judgment, the conditional love, the façade of a perfect Christian. I turn to embrace the unconditional love, the acceptance of the imperfect being I am, the knowledge that God does not demand but quietly asks while providing ways for us to give to Him.

As I turn to these things and embrace them with my mind, my heart balks. How can it turn on all it has ever known? My soul is dried and parched for real love and acceptance but until it can get through my heart, my soul remains a wasteland. While all this is going on, my spirit just sits there on its hands, unable to do anything but watch helplessly. The chasm between my heart and my mind must be bridged but it is a weary job and is often set back.

Today, as a way to try to span the gap, I took communion. Last week, there was no judgment, no comment, no questioning glances as I sat in the pew while others went forward. There were actually others who stayed seated. Others who looked like normal folks, folks who may be regular attendees or even members. Strangely enough, it was that sight that helped me feel safe enough to go forward and accept communion. As I approached the altar, my hands were shaking even while they were shoved in my pockets. I reached out to take a piece of bread from the loaf and the woman said to me, “This is the body of Christ. May you be blessed by taking it.” When I dipped it in the wine, the man said to me, “This is the blood of Christ. May you be blessed by taking it.”

I was blessed by partaking in communion. It was not a test, a glimpse of the judgment that I would receive upon my death (or Christ’s second coming, whichever would come first). I felt … safe. I felt as if I was communing with other believers in a memorial of the act of our Savior and nothing more. There was no emotionally looking over my shoulder for the grim reaper. I felt safe, restful, and reflective.

This may or may not happen next week, but I have a glimmer of hope. Hope that I can be healed sometime in the future. That I won’t look at my soul and see gashed, gaping wounds that ooze grief. That I can lose my bitter anger towards those who I trusted the most with my spiritual guidance as a child — namely, my parents. That the anger and bitterness can be replaced with a quiet grief and eventually, a muted memory of my past. A memory muted by the loving acceptance of a God who doesn’t take until we are empty but gives us what we need to fill ourselves.