Over the course of our life together, James and I have worked together at two different schools.

I know what they say about not defecating in the same place as your meals, but I had a great time working with my partner. At my last school in Texas, it was a rare joy to have lunch in the cafeteria with my (then) new husband and also new supervisor. We'd swap stories about our beloved students all the time.

We're especially fond of one student Curt*, who was often pulled into one-on-one 'reflections' with adults because of his patterned impulsivity. After one particular episode, he was asked to explain what happened in his own words.

To his credit, Curt didn't lie, blameshift, or make up stories. He owned his part. But here's his summary of why he did what he did.

"Mrs. Brown tells me what to do and my brain just kicks it out of my head!"

Another one of our secret favorite kids, Kris*, had to be pulled into the hallway once after he really got into it with his classmate. He seemed frustrated and - most curiously - baffled.

"I don't know what happened," he sputtered with wide eyes. "I'm just so fast and strong that trouble always just finds me."

*Names changed to protect the identities of the innocent

If you work or live with children in any capacity, you probably see a version of this all the time. Trouble really does seems to follow children as their developmental self-centeredness makes it hard for them to bridge the gap between 'World of Me to 'You're Not The Only Human Here'. These tiny humans strrruuuuugle with juggling multiple - sometimes competing - desires at any given time. On the one hand, they want to make nice with their friend. On the other hand, Mang, dat TOAD just knocked down my tower of blocks, so now we're gonna *boop* that little moofuffer on the nose.

It happens all the time. And teachers have the happy and hefty job of helping them understand how to discern which impulses to follow.

"Think before you speak," teachers will remind students like Curt or Kris. The ones that Trouble always seems to find. And that lesson doesn't seem to end with childhood.

I’ve been going through an emotional roller coaster these days. I was, as the kids now say, real shook. The headlines brought on some big feels and fears, and hearing stories from friends left me horrified, heartbroken, and shell-shocked. I hit rock bottom when people in my own circles told me, sometimes in graphic terms, how they were hurt by churches. My past churches.

Actually, even that might be too softly worded. Some of them talked about how they were made to feel like trash by pastors and Church Leaders. Religion was used to multiply the trauma of their darkest moments. Perhaps they, like Curt, had something make them kick Truth out of their head. Or maybe it was because they're just so fast and spiritually strong that trouble just found them.

"He asked me what I was wearing that day," one friend shared in a bare whisper, talking about a man with whom I'm still friends on Facebook. "He mentioned the 'kinds of outfits women might tend to wear'. And then he asked if I'd done something to lead the guy on."

Another send me a direct message on Instagram. She started with only the scantest details, but as we kept going back and forth, her messages got longer and longer as her rage surfaced more openly. "Our church is full of hypocrites. These church girls would get into their corners and gossip all the time. Then one time I heard one of them basically call me a slut when she thought I couldn't hear them."

Minutes later, that same girl plopped next to my friend in the pew and raised her hands reverently toward the vaulted ceiling as she worshipped.

This particular friend of mine hasn't returned to churches for over seven years as a result. "Especially Korean churches," she seethed.

And these are just a few of the women who have since reached out and entrusted their stories with me. I'm only sharing a few, but boy did it weigh heavy on my soul. All of it forced me to take a hard look at my happy memories of church. I had to reckon the truth of these women's experiences with my lilting Sunday School songs and the gratitude I always felt for spiritual mentors, the same ones that were mentioned by name - church leaders, teachers, and pastors. These who were once and collectively an inimitable force in helping me grow as a person somehow also made these women feel as if they invited the darkest and most painful moments of their lives.

I had a few more serious conversations with women, often with a Kleenex box nearby. I practically emptied a brand new box with this last one. A friend with whom I hadn't spoken to in years reached out to me out of the blue to tell me about how her church encouraged her 'find a way' with a physically abusive husband. "My ankle hasn't healed all the way since," she shared matter-of-factly.

The limp is nearly gone, but she's often wondered if things might've been different. "If I didn't listen to my church. If I just left him years before."

(Note: She's allowed me share her story but not her name or any identifiers since she doesn't always trust the protection of a restraining order. This is the kind of man her church wanted her to "work things out" with).

In case you were curious, I remain connected with these teachers and church leaders. They're my friends and close acquaintances. I don't know if they'll ever read this. I don't know if this will trigger something from the far recesses of their mind, pulling up dusty memories they'd really rather not remember.

To be quite frank, I’ve gazed at a few of these profile pictures, wondering how I’ll ever see them the same way again.

I think some of you feel that way about me too. There seemed to be a few floating retweets that landed like passive-aggressive requests for me to tone it down. Stop writing your emotions out for all the world to see, they seemed to be hushing.

One was brave enough to come forward a little more directly. “I was offended by your last post,” she wrote, point blank. “I think you’re spreading lies. I'm sorry about your infertility. That's painful and I wish we could be friends so I could do more to support. But I also need to stand on the side of truth. I’m removing you from all my social media accounts. I’m so disappointed by liberals who refuse to see the way, the truth, and the life.”

I appreciated that, actually. She was good enough to say, No thank you. You’re there, and I’m over here, and I refuse to believe you have anything worthwhile to say. I’ve tried to reach out one last time to ask if I could share her words. But it’s really hard to reach someone who’s slammed the door shut with such finality. So L., if you’re reading this, I still love you. No matter what you say or do, you are still so worthy of love and goodness.

As for me, I spent all day thinking, feeling, and journaling. I also let myself lazily dawdle around the house and even take an uncharacteristic nap. I wanted to give my processing parts all the kindness and space it needed. And finally, after the anger and shock whispered away, I just felt tired and sad. Because I grew up with Christians, many of whom have brilliantly colored inside the lines of my life with their wisdom, their sagacity, and their vivaciousness. I love attending church and it stung to know that these buildings were the epicenter of so much pain for others. I wish we would take a hard look at how we're ministering to what Christians call 'the lost and unchurched'. And I don't just mean what's taught from the pulpits. No one really wears WWJD bracelets anymore, but if we did, I think those woven nylon bracelets would squirm hard on our wrists every time we spoke carelessly, scoffed openly, and chased people away from the very Savior we celebrate on Sundays.

Honestly? None of this is really meant for any of you. I'm repeating it mostly to myself as I keep myself up at night with suffocating memories of mistakes I've made. Thoughts I've had. Hurts I’ve caused.

Gandhi is often credited as the floating head behind the quote - “I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians.” This sentence has become quite popular in Christian circles to implore followers to be like Jesus. There’s no evidence that Gandhi ever said this, but a similar quote appears from an Indian philosopher Bara Dada, who in the 1930s said, “Jesus is ideal and wonderful, but you Christians, you are not like him.”

And in these past few years, I’ve watched the world say the same thing. Churches are vilified as fanatical, pedantic, anti-science freaks who rush the political battlefield whenever someone touches one of their sacred cows. Even if they end up trampling their neighbor as a result. Ironically, they’ll often insist they’re not into politics, that they’re really on the side of truth.

Killing babies is wrong, they’ll say. Guns are our right. Vaccines will destroy the temple that God perfectly designed for you.

These are a few of the mountains that are defended with Bible as their shields, at any and all costs. Onward Christian soldiers!

And, most painfully, some of the friends I held most dearly have aimed their now-SCOTUS protected guns in my direction. They felt offended when I talked about my fears about now conceiving a child because they equated that with me planning an abortion. They felt bad about what happened in Buffalo and Uvalde but there was no way they'd give up their prized rifles.

I think our hackles rise when it seems like people are twisting The Truth.

But sometimes we're just upset because people’s experiences make us feel uncomfortable about our truths.

Here’s my big takeaway. I mean, for myself and my own heart's journey. If I believe that there is a life after this one and that I will have to give an accounting for everything I did during my time on this gently orbiting globe, I really don’t want to look into my Savior’s face and admit that I used parts of his Bible to cause anyone harm - intentionally or non. Sure, there are times to be a good friend by making them face hard truths (like the fact that making something called a 'Spoon Scale' for your blog just makes you sound like a five-year-old). But implying that a girl's clothes are somehow responsible and calling them a slut behind their back is not what my Bible says. Instead, it teaches that faith without works is dead.

So I wonder if we’re not turning verses into exclusionary monoliths of truth that make it seem like homosexuality is the most abhorrent sin (it isn’t), or that having an abortion immediately bars you from God (it doesn’t).

Because if that's what we're doing, people will see Jesus as a copy of us. They’ll think Jesus is as judgey as us, that the rape must have been a cruel God's will, and that heaven is a place they're all too glad to avoid because it probably resembles the steepled building they'll never step into again.

One of the things I love most about children is that as frequently as they make mistakes, they're often far quicker and more willing than adults to drop their shoulders, concede, and apologize for wrongdoing. So I'm hoping to become more like them.

Because as teachers know all too well, eyes are always watching and learning. And I think we all want to make sure we’re teaching the right kind of lessons.