A Dead, Dead Man Walking


I’ve been baptized for years- baptized November 24, 2002– but I can’t say how long I’ve been saved or alive.

I didn’t sleep walk through it but I wasn’t alive for most of it either. I didn’t just ‘go through the motions’ either, I, hmmm

I was active but I was also mostly distracted. I was committed but my commitment pie was missing a few slices.

I was both saved and lost in the same breath. I sought God, but most of my most thorough searches began and ended within the confines of a church service.

I think I was called at the intersection where my very real issues sped, crashed, or had haphazardly pulled over, all with loud honking horns and converged in this massively overwhelming traffic jam, all the while, all demanding a part of me.

I also felt abandoned to figure out what it meant to serve God. I now know that serving is loving. Loving him more than every and anything and doing so in action. Loving in actions as well as words.

Before I sift through the traffic jam. I’d like to explain my abandonment. I got baptized. I got left, well, we got left, to figure it out. I believe it was 3 or 4 of us that got baptized on that day. What happened was, our Sunday school teacher had left and joined another church, then the others that would be there to guide us, well they either had college focusing on or their relationships and later on marriages then their families. So we were born in a time when everyone that could have guided us had a lot focusing on, so we had no choice but to copy what we saw being done and soak up as much knowledge from the services we attended, try and read and understand the Word and some how figure out how to engage God and heaven and get filled by the holy spirit and use this power we were to have possessed and be holy and pure and learn to worship and understand worship and believe God and trust Jesus and love our neighbours as ourselves and tell others to come to church and accept Jesus and just be good all the time and I don’t know, be saved.

Headlining in the traffic jam was the beginning of puberty or the real real onset of it. I was 11 and having a hard time accepting what was happening to my body. My eyes were playing a cruel game with what it unveiled daily. Especially in comparison to the other girls. I was one of the “plump” kids with access to cable tv. It wasn’t hard for anorexia and bulimia to creep through those cruel eyes and into my mind and take hold of my body.

I was in need of a mother. I had no other saved person at home. I was beginning to remember all the bad stuff. I was about to experience another “bad thing”, this time IN church. I was about to move. I was in a new school that opened my eyes to classism and to a lesser extent, what I can only explain as racism. I had no identity and I was now questioning my sexuality. There were boys that had penises they were itching to try out. My mind was becoming crowded. There were parties. There was music. There was suicide. There was me and my now colourless world, my new world after Preparatory school that had no more games of innocent pretend or rings around roses. Just thorns and red, lots of blood red. And black. Lots of abysmally dark, pitch, black.

I was baptized but I wasn’t saved for more than few months at a time. Saved and in love with God until my next moment of despair. Until my next difficult thing. My next temptation. My next god, my next idol, my next joy ride down the broad road.

I was saved for a few months of the years that I had been baptized and empowered to love God and his people and myself.

I was saved on my good days and moments of my bad. Then eventually I let go.

Rae Sonson,
May 14, 2016,
12:21 p.m.


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