Church Girl

“But what about you?” he asked. “Who do you say I am?”

—Mark 8:29

Growing up, I loved going to church until about halfway through high school, when I got tired of being a church girl, of being one of the only church girls in my group of friends at school, the only one on my pom squad, the only one at the party who never had to worry about taking a Breathalyzer. When I played Powder Puff football, I missed the day we chose nicknames for our jerseys, and my friends chose mine for me. All their names were thinly veiled drinking references or allusions to scandalous dating experiences. When I picked up my jersey, it said, “Church Lady.”

I knew they loved me and that they knew I was more than a Saturday Night Live sketch, but it hurt me. I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I was tired of being different, and underneath that, I wanted to know why it was worth being so different. I was different because that’s the way I had grown up, and I needed to see if it was what I would have chosen on my own.