I’ve been thinking about how it started . . . this knowing.

This knowing that to the pastor I was never “enough.”

My earliest memory . . . the first inkling . . . was years and years ago.  I was sitting on the platform at the front of the sanctuary with the staff music leader.  We had finished rehearsing for the evening service and we had some time before people would start arriving so we were sitting side-by-side in chairs on the platform. The pastor came in and walked straight up to the music leader, shook his hand, and told him what a great job he was doing.  Then he turned and walked away.

It was as if I didn’t exist.

And then it happened again.  And again.  And again.  And Again.  Week after week.  Sunday after Sunday.

Oftentimes, I would be part of a group of eight or ten worship team members and after the service, the pastor would come up on the platform and greet each person and thank them.  Until he got to the person right before me.  Once he shook that persons’ hand or gave them a hug, he would turn and walk away.

It didn’t take long and I began to turn away before he got close.  It was too painful.  To be left out.  Ignored.  It was too painful to realize that I wasn’t “enough.”

Coming from a church where I had been beaten and bloodied – my very standing as a Christian scrutinized and questioned, I assumed this pastor thought, too, that I was of negligible value.

I suppose I could have been the one to approach him.  I wish I could have.  I so wanted to.

I was just so scared. The last pastor I had known had tried desperately to destroy me – and nearly succeeded.  To approach this one was unthinkable.  If he wanted to speak to me, shake my hand, acknowledge my existence, he could do so without my prodding. He would have to.  I was too terrified to initiate so much as a wave, let alone a handshake or a conversation.

So, when he never did, I could only assume that it was because I was not “enough.”

Not good enough.  Not valuable enough. Not pretty enough. Not thin enough. Not wealthy enough. Not smart enough. Not talented enough. Not worthy enough. Not . . .


Today marks two months since we were told to leave the church.

I wasn’t enough.  We weren’t enough.

And now, two months later, still . . .

Not enough.


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