Tonight I attended Christmas Eve service at the church where I was baptized over a decade ago. I went, not because I felt a strong desire to worship God, or even, as my mom claims, out of convenience and a free ride to dinner afterwards, but simply because I felt a need to participate in a tradition that has been ongoing in my family for some years now. Years ago, I prayed that my father's yearly attendance at this service would lead to him being saved. I remember listening to the pastor's words, praying that they would speak to my dad, that they would move him to realize how much God loved him, and that he needed to make the decision to follow Christ. There are few things in my life that I have ever wanted so badly. When my dad finally made that decision, I remember praising God and sobbing with relief and gratefulness. For a believer, there is no greater pain, no greater urgency, I believe, than living with the knowledge that there are people we love who will go to hell.

I realized, after graduating from college, that I don't really believe in God anymore. One year ago, I sat in this same service, unable to sing songs that my heart decried to be false. I hated those who spoke about God's love, and God's truth. I felt bitter, I felt lied to. I planned to skip tonight's service because I couldn't stand the thought of feeling so angry again. Then, I pictured my mom and dad sitting in the sanctuary, neither one an attendee of Trinity any longer, and I knew that I needed to be there. I needed to stand beside them, to sing songs, to smile at strangers and hug friends and recognize a night that once meant so much to me. I resigned myself, with much disdain, to step into the role of "holiday Christian". One of "those" people who appear out of the woodwork to show interest in the faith around Easter and Christmas, and not a single other day of the year.

My heart wasn't convicted tonight. God didn't snap me out of my unbelief. I saw people whom I've missed, I sang songs that evoked fond Christmas memories, and I was aware that, deep down, I do miss certain aspects of the lifestyle I have given up. I miss the comfort of prayer - of believing that my cries for help, my joyful thanksgiving, and my desire for godliness were being heard. I miss the community. I miss the sense of purpose. I do not miss feeling fraudulent. I do not miss feeling like the salvation of others rests on my shoulders. And I especially do not miss spending hours of my life in an uncomfortable chair, being talked at, rather than to.

These are my thoughts this Christmas Eve. It’s late. Goodnight.

An unusually eventful trip to the store...

Last night, I worked in my classroom until almost 7 o'clock at night. Finally, deciding I'd had enough, I got into my car and headed home. On the way, I stopped in at Target to take care of some errands. On the way in, I got a Venti coffee (my second of the day, but I was hoping to get some work done that night while Kevin was gone) and proceeded to shop. After I finished buying my "goods", I realized that, if I stopped over at my parents' house prior to going home, it would be a while before I got to eat. So, I decided to grab a bag of popcorn from the snack bar. I took my bag over, along with my coffee, and ordered a large bag of popcorn. The bag, the popcorn, and my coffee were tricky to handle, but I seemed to be doing fine as I moved past the crowds and headed to the exit. It was then that disaster struck. As I shifted my things, some of my popcorn spilled on the floor. Embarrassed, and not wanting to be one of "those" people who make a mess and leave it for someone else to deal with, I bent over and attempted to pick up my popcorn. Next to me, a woman asked me if I was ok. As she was talking to me, I realized that my coffee had tipped over in my arm. The lid popped off and began spilling on my leg as I struggled to clean up my mess. We both realized what was happening, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. Panicked, I said to her with a mortified laugh, “I need to leave now”. I stopped trying to clean up, and dripped my way over to three men in uniforms, whom I mistook for the Target security staff. I began blabbering about how I had spilt my coffee and my popcorn and how I tried to clean up the mess but made it worse... etc. About 45 seconds into my spiel, it occurred to me that Target NEVER has three security guards working the front of the store. The men, who were probably about my age, continued to listen to me, with surprisingly amused smiles instead of the annoyed expressions I was expecting from those who would have to run the vacuum on my behalf. It was then that I read "Livermore Police" on one of the men's uniforms, and remembered the two police cars I had seen outside on my way in. Unnecessarily, I announced, "Oh God, and you don't even work here! Why am I telling you this?!". My faced flushed, I stood there, with coffee on my pants, unsure of what to do next. Finally, one assured me that he would pass my message along. I thanked them and hobbled to the exit. When I got to my car, I began sobbing hysterically, all the while completely and totally aware of the hilarity of my situation. I bawled my way through town to my parents' house, stopped at every light for my fellow travelers to witness my nervous breakdown.