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My Story
I suppose the best place to begin is at the beginning. I wasn’t raised
in one church. My dad moved us from church to church… to church. I
remember that after each church service, no matter what church we had
gone to, he would sit us down and tell us what was wrong with what the
pastor had said and tell us what we should believe instead. He was the
son of a preacher man and had gone to Bible College, so he knew his
stuff, right? That’s what he insisted, anyway. My mother just kept quiet
about his decisions and worshipped in her own quiet way no matter what
church my dad dragged us to.
When I was 14 my dad finally settled on a church, well, for a few years
at least. The youth there made me feel hated, the people there were
hypocritical, and I didn’t feel God there, so I refused to go to church
with my family any longer. That was a struggle because my dad was
controlling and abusive, but that is another story.
About a year later I met a boy, Brent, who asked me to go to church with
him. He asked for weeks, until I finally gave in and went. Yes, it was
an apostolic church, UPCI to be exact. I had been to an apostolic church
when I was younger, so I was not shocked by the dancing, shouting,
speaking in tongues, etc. I’m not sure why I kept going back, but I did.
Maybe it was for Brent, maybe it was because I needed something the
church offered. Like I said, home was not a friendly place, and as far
as I could see then, the church was. During one evening service I found
myself at the altar, praying, crying. I had removed all of my jewelry
and laid it on the altar. Soon I had repented, been baptized in Jesus’
name, and had started my quest to “receive the Holy Ghost”. Yes, quest.
In days that followed I stopped wearing pants and started wearing skirts
and dresses. I stopped wearing makeup and, though I had a hard time with
it, decided to never let scissors touch my hair again. At that time I
thought it was conviction. Now I know it was peer pressure and control
tactics.
I went to the altar at every altar call for the longest time, but never
seemed to be able to speak in tongues, no matter what I did, or didn’t
do. I lived in a state of guilt, hurt, anger, and confusion for several
years because I couldn’t “get the Holy Ghost”. I couldn’t speak in
tongues, so I was damned to the fires of Hell, no matter that I strived
to live a Godly, repented life. I stopped watching tv. I only listened
to Christian music. I read my Bible constantly and read church-approved
books. I tried to be “in the world but not of the world”. I sat in the
front pew, with other girls, of course, and worshipped my little heart
out. I joined the choir and actively participated in the Youth Group and
tithed and knocked on doors and walked the walk that I was talking. None
of that seemed to matter, though. When the church doors opened, I was
there. When there was an altar call, I usually went. I eventually grew
weary, disappointed and heartbroken. I stopped going to every altar
call, knowing that all I’d achieve was a pile of wet Kleenex. I didn’t
quit going to church over it, though. I was told that I probably hadn’t
fully repented, or was holding on to something that God wanted me to let
go of. I had repented of every sin I could think of, including the
little white lies I had told when I was five. I prayed to be “a
handmaiden to God”. If the Apostolic faith had a convent, I would have
gladly joined. I was that dedicated to my God. And I was truly puzzled
as to why He wasn’t pouring out His Spirit on me.
Five years after I started going to the apostolic church, I finally got
to say I had the Holy Ghost, although I wasn’t positive that I had
spoken in tongues. It was during a revival. I got there late, and a
friend of mine came running out of the church to tell me that Brent, the
same guy who had invited me to the church all those years ago, had
“prayed through”. I ran into the church with her, ran right down the
middle aisle, and straight to the altar. Apparently I worshipped so hard
that I don’t remember speaking in tongues. Maybe I never really did.
After I cooled down, I was told that I had spoken in tongues. I’m sure I
thought something along the lines of “it’s about time!” and I just
didn’t argue with them. At that point they also told me that I had
started to speak in tongues many, many times over the years and had
stopped myself but they had never mentioned it because they wanted me to
KNOW I had the Holy Ghost for myself. I had no memory of speaking in
tongues ever. I was supposed to be happy because I could finally go to
Heaven. I just felt even more confused and hurt. Hurt because they had
let me live with such emotional pain all those years. Hurt because
“getting the Holy Ghost” wasn’t what I had imagined it to be. Hurt
because I was pretty sure I had not spoken in tongues even though they
said I had. I didn’t argue. I just accepted that they thought I had
received the Holy Ghost finally.
It wasn’t too long after that that I met the man I was going to marry. I
didn’t know that at the time, but I knew our relationship was wonderful
beyond compare and unlike any other I had ever had. I invited him to
church. He eventually came. The first thing my pastor said to him wasn’t
“Hello, brother, glad to meet you!” or “Welcome to our church, make
yourself at home!” Nope. My pastor firmly shook his hand and said “I
hope you realize that she will have to choose between you and the
church.” Of course, my soon-to-be-husband didn’t ever want to go back to
that church. I had a hard time going to church where my love interest
wasn’t welcome. I slid out of church slowly, missing a Sunday here, a
Wednesday there, until I realized I hadn’t been to church in over a
month. It’s now been 11 years since I’ve been “in church”. I clung to
the hope that we’d find a church to attend together for a while, but
that hope has long since died, along with my faith. I began to listen to
secular music and watch tv. I began to read whatever interested me. I
started to wear jewelry, and even got some body piercings. I played
Dungeons and Dragons and, well, had fun finally. However, I held on to
the outer appearance of “holiness” even though I obviously wasn’t a
churchgoing person. It was so much a part of who I thought I needed to
be. I wore skirts and refused to do more to my hair than get it trimmed
until last year. Now I know that was sad. My appearance shouldn’t make
or break my chances of salvation. Hopefully God is not that superficial.
So, after 11 years of not being in an apostolic church, you’d think I’d
have things figured out. HA! Not even close. I have ignored the
spiritual side of my life for at least the last 10 years. Thinking about
it hurt too much. Now I just don’t know what to believe. I do think that
I was fooled by the UPCI. I hate that it took so long for me to realize
it. I have no idea what to believe anymore, though. I know there is a
God; I just have no idea what to do about it.
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