When I first started to feel the love for God growing inside me, I started recording the services. Especially the Wednesday night Bible study with it’s more intimate crowds and casual warmth. We swayed harder, spread our arms wider and felt closer to God and each other. I loved Wednesday nights.

Five years later, I play back some of the first recordings from my evangelical church. The long, immersive  prayers and repeating the chorus of that Chris Tomlin song flood me with happy memories. I can hear my friends crying out in gratitude to God and whispering “Amen” beside me.

As the sound pipes through my car stereo, I am transported and I feel like I am there and they are here. I can feel the ugly rug under my bare feet. I reach out for them but there is only a steering wheel.

I listen to the prayers from the preacher who was my friend. Back then, before the rush of “end times” he let us marinate in our walk with God. He prays for you to over come the storm and trust the writings of Paul and he’s not wrong. I miss those teaching nights.

Now I’m a wandering Christian. I don’t attach to any one holy space. I pass through and show up when God nudges me to be there. Otherwise, my faith journey has turned more inward as I find myself on this private pilgrimage.

The evangelical church had the atmosphere that helps me, personally, to connect with God and community. Their views on the LGTBQIA community are dangerous and actively hurting people. Jesus would not want me to be part of that.

So my pilgrimage is solo… for now.