I have words, but I’m not as good nor practiced at putting them together as other people.
So this article by Rev. Lara Blackwood Pickrel at Fidelia’s Sisters rings in my soul, with the beloved story of my childhood and the painful story of my parish.
Max’s world is broken, just like his home and his heart. As ruler of a broken world, there isn’t much left for a kid to do besides scream, kick and bite – and Max does just that. A heated battle with his mother ends with Max on the run. Sneakers slapping pavement, gasping breath and steam, ragged wolf hood flapping behind him – Max runs and runs until he finds a boat, and then he sails away to…the Church.
[T]o escape being eaten, he does what anyone would do when pressed into a corner: he tells them he’s a King. And not just any king – he’s got the power, the knowledge and the experience they need to make their home better.
My feelings currently are that I did not go to that parish in search of power or glory. I walked in, and they declared me King, and demanded I make things better. I’d been in a parish that did a Search, of course then I knew everything about how to conduct a Search. I was a young woman in a church, therefore I knew everything about drawing young people to church. I knew how to collect history, therefore I knew everything about collecting a detailed and intricate history of the parish with no assistance, no background, no introduction to the elders who had been baptized in the parish as infants.
I don’t want the crown.
I don’t want to be in charge.
I don’t want to be the parish’s savior.
These are just my feelings. And I’m sure if I told them to the churchmembers, they’d all deny that they wanted me to do all these things. I’m sure at least one of the church leaders would tell me that they never saw this happening, never said anything like that, in a tone that resembled the one that they would use to tell me that I was lying.
It’s not the first time they’ve used that tone on me.