Walking Homeward

I left in my mid-twenties, gradually, through a series of what-ifs that followed the path of every child’s development. What if I drop the spoon again? What if I don’t answer when Mother calls me? What if I stop reading the Bible, stop speaking in tongues, stop praying? The initial departure, the decision to stop going to my Bible fellowship group, was very much like a child taking her bundle and stick and walking out the front door. Except, unlike the child, I knew (or thought I knew) my family wouldn’t follow behind at a safe distance. The Way had a policy against that sort of thing. The most offensive troublemakers, like my dad, who left when I was fifteen, were labelled “mark and avoid,” and contact was all but forbidden. Others who went quietly were politely shunned or kept at that distance reserved for unbelievers. Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers, for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness, and what communion hath light with darkness?