When I was younger, eleven, actually. I was very, very sad and had abandoned everything. My dreams, my hope, my wish to live. I wasn’t fighting, I didn’t even care to die, I didn’t care enough to kill myself. If I would, I wouldn’t be writing this now. There are many reasons as to why I felt this way, but none are important to share. I remember one day, my mom had dragged me out shopping for some essentials, we met two missionaries at the town square and they looked at me with smiling faces. The first real smiles I had seen in a long while.
“Have you ever considered visiting the church?” I looked up and them and just a bit, I smiled back. I was too tired to force a real smile, so just a hint of one was what I could offer.
“My mom and dad are members of your church” Mom said and pulled my hand, as to go away from them. But something about them appealed to me, and I stayed and looked at them.
“I would like to go” I said.
Not because I believed in god or their ways. I had never read the bible or been to a real seminar. But for once, I needed something to really believe in, something to take care of me while I was down.
The next Sunday my uncle and my cousins took me to the church. We talked about the lord and how prayer can help us out in our time of need.
I had one request, one real request that I wanted, but I knew that no magic and no god could make something like that undone. Yet I went there. I listened to the prophet, the priest, the counselor of the holy spirit. And with the book of Mormon in my hand I somehow felt lighter.
The pure belief that someone took care of me, that there was a god to lead my way, only that thought brought me comfort and peace of mind.
We had a moment of prayer before we left the church. I leaned my head down and closed my eyes.
“God… I know I’ve been unfaithful, I know I haven’t believed in you, but I need help, I need someone to watch over me, and if you’re really there, please… please hear me out.
My tears won’t stop falling, dry them, please. Give me strength to face the people I despise, give me strength to face the tormentors in my life. Is this your way of teaching? If so, I will understand… but please… please, hear me out. Please help me, care for me, for my family, I want to see mom smile again… I don’t want to cry like this anymore. Please, I pray for forgiveness and hope, give me but a single light and I will hope, I will never lose hope again, just… feel me. My sorrow, help me care.”
Amen.
For a year I went to church every Sunday, it was my refuge, there I didn’t need to think about my daily life or what happened to me. When I was twelve, my grandfather baptized me, and I was a real member of the Church of Latter Day Saints. Call it a cult if you wish, it won’t hurt me, I know what I did helped me at the time, and I don’t regret joining the church.
“Forget your sins and your wrongs, and forgive yourself, then you will walk the right path” He said to me, my beloved grandfather.
When I was thirteen I stopped going to church, I was stronger, with the help of my brothers and sisters in faith, I had finally found a way I could keep to, to be able to at least survive another day. For another year, I just kept praying, praying for better times, praying for salvation. And I always cried. Cried as my scrubbed knees leaned on the hard concrete floor, with my hands and fingers grasping each other, I looked down, then close my eyes, and I softly murmured my pray.
“Hear me out… hear me out”
When I went to sleep, I stared at the ceiling, let the colors blur and fade, until I closed my eyes. Wishing that tomorrow would be a brighter day.
But the brighter days never came.
I stopped believing in a change by prayer. I knew I had to take matters in to my own hands.
And with the tears stocking in my throat, I looked one of my bullies right in the eyes, and I raised my voice. For the first time since the first strike, I stood my ground and I screamed. “STOP! STOP THIS!” I remember the silence that followed my plead, or command.
It didn’t help, he didn’t stop, but I felt stronger anyhow. Because I had stood my ground.
I had gathered enough strength to shake my head and know that what was happening was wrong.
It has taken me seven years, from the time I joined the church, to now, when I’m eighteen, soon nineteen, to find the proper balance in myself.
I don’t doubt that the placebo effect of my belief helped me on my way, and even the harsh every day life helped me become who I am. I am strong.
When I was sixteen I requested a resign from the church. I was no longer a member, and I somehow felt free. I could finally breathe.
Perhaps if there is a god, maybe he helped me. But I know, that I am the one to give credit to. I stood up, I survived. I kept on going when everything seemed like it would end.
The reason why I’m telling you this is: One: Sometimes, all you need is belief. In anything, in something, or someone. If you believe, you will be strong.
And second: Don’t judge those who hold the book of Mormon in their grip, they, just like me, might have been seeking a refuge. And they found it “in the hands of the lord”
I’m more of a Buddhist, or someone who just relies on zen, the balance of life, to juggle all aspects and parts in perfect harmony.
That’s why I resigned. I loved the church, but not their views. Especially seeing as how I’m a man who dates men…
Anyways.
Every Christian or any believer isn’t a bible humping activist. Give them a chance. But one thing is very clear. If they try to force their religion on you, force their bullshit back in their ass. It’s your choice, and only your choices in your life will make you truly happy in the end.
Be strong and you will find a way.
-End of story-
