Walking into my hometown church for the first time in twenty years, a lump formed in my throat, my shoulders spasmed and my legs buckled under the weight of my sadness.
I hadn’t come back voluntarily; I was here for my father’s funeral. He’d been sick for ten years and I thought I’d be prepared for his death. Turns out I wasn’t ready to face it, especially in a place that once caused me so much pain.
My husband, Michael, clutched my arm. “O God, Our Help in Ages Past” blared on the organ. Louder still were the whispers playing in my head. Sinners. God will punish you with the plague. You will suffer. You will burn.
Read Full Article »