Thanks for the Reminder: Why I Hate Church, a Personal Story

I fell a few months back. We laughingly refer to my fall from grace as The Great Dishwasher Tragedy of 2016. For all the bullshit I deal with having a rare, chronic disease, at least the story behind this one is amusing. Yes, I fell and landed on my ass while doing the dishes. And no, the extra padding did not do me any good whatsoever. That old wives’ tale is bullshit!

Two days later, I started experiencing muscle spasms that made me pray to every god I could recall ever having heard the name of, and a few I made up for good measure. Eventually bed rest and drugs were enough I quit fantasizing about cracking my own head with a baseball bat. Unfortunately the issues surrounding this fuckfest are lingering, and I am currently still a major fall risk. Tonight my baby girl had her recital at a local church, which I refused to miss, so I sucked it up and used a cane to attend. My one fear, my greatest, is that of losing my already precarious balance and taking another dive.

I was quite proud of my angel for her inspired performance of Silent Night, and of myself for making it through the entire program, and we headed out. That is when I saw him…a giant of a self-important man, caught up in his own righteousness, walking quickly and without regard for anyone else. I had a premonition, but not an ability to react. And he knocked me over without a moment’s hesitation and never slowed down. I did not have a prayer even if I believed in it. Down I went.



Several people around came to my rescue. I was once again on my ass, at first unsure if my body or my ego was more damaged.

“What happened?” someone asked.

“That BASTARD just ran into me, knocked me over, and –”

“Shhhh! Don’t say that word in CHURCH!”

I am literally on the church floor here, wrapped around my cane, trying to determine if my bones are all still in one piece. I am beyond embarrassed, in pain, and the first thing the extra crispy Christians can think of to do is get on to me for saying a “bad word”! FUUUUUUUCCCCCKKK!

“Are you okay?” Finally! Someone asks me the important question as three people assist me up off the floor.

“I’m fine. No, I’m fine. I swear, I’m fantastic. Thanks for asking.”

I hobbled over to the wall, leaned against it, and waited until the rest of my group could gather everything and leave. For the record, the psycho KO man never acknowledged me, and I was told as we were leaving he was a preacher. (Super Bastard, amiright?)

This probably sounds like it should be a diary entry instead of an article for a website. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized this ridiculous scenario is everything I despise about fundagelicals. I am back in bed where I belong, with ice on my knee and ankle, not looking forward to tomorrow. And the priority inside the church was my immediate reaction of saying “bastard”.

Was I wrong? Yes. I was raised better than that. But I was not exactly having my best moment. I don’t think it would have been too much to ask to overlook my momentary lapse considering the circumstances.

On the bright side, I’m sure there are dozens of people praying for my soul tonight. Hopefully that will keep them too occupied to gossip about my kerplunk onto the ground.

Thanks for listening, Dear Diary. And thanks for reminding me about the difference between fake and real compassion.

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