I let the pages drift away. The wind carried the delicate pages—that bore a story of heartache, frustration, triumph, and redemption—a few feet away me before gently laying them on the surface of the water. I watched as the water slowly spread, the writing becoming blurred, and the once crisp pages became translucent and fragile.

The sun was out and the clouds were wisps. I closed my eyes, turning my face towards its warmth, processing what had just happened.

I know that I said I would post a follow up to the experience I shared about racism. That post was actually meant to be one of three parts, a saga that unfolded throughout my life in the church, often plaguing me. I mentioned how overcome with emotion I was when I first wrote about the experiences, and that they were too difficult to share. But after I finished rewriting the last segment, something changed; I no longer wanted to share the series. Maybe I didn’t want the criticism and the inevitable arguments that would follow; maybe I recognized a line too personal to cross; or maybe I just found peace and closure in the writing itself.

My blog was never intended to attack the church, or to be a place to vent or cause contention. It was simply a way to be part of a narrative that was going on around me, but seldom included me. I thought that my writing could be my defense against the rumors, gossip, and misunderstandings that circulated around my leaving the church.

I knew that the people who whispered about me, who spewed resentment and criticism, would probably never read my writing. And that was OK. Let’s face it, when I was in their shoes, I might not have read it either.

But something happened to my blog along the way. Words that I thought were written in my defense—to try to help others see my point of view, and understand my struggle—weren’t my defense at all. They were not weapons to fight back.  They were instruments of freedom.

It wasn’t until a book that I was reading fell apart, and my cousin pointed out the symbolism, that I was finally able to express this understanding.  It was a used book, a little tattered, but still in good shape. I was careful to not get it wet as I floated around the pool one afternoon. (Our pool is my favorite place to read and stay cool in the Las Vegas heat.) Several chapters in, I turned a page and it came unbound in my hand. Then, one after another, the pages I turned broke free of the binding and the rest of the story. I was left with a stack of loose pages in one hand, and the last half of the book barely holding together in my other. If you have lived in Vegas, you are familiar with “the blower dryer”— it’s what they call the summer wind that isn’t refreshing and doesn’t cool you down, just blows thick, hot air. A quick little gust from the blow dryer whipped the newly loosed leafs from my hand and carried them across the pool.

The pages I had read were gone—some blown across the yard, some floating in the pool next to the floating pink flamingo, and some still tumbling with the breeze. But the remainder of the story was in my hand. I didn’t reach for lost the pages. I didn’t try to gather them up and glue them back in. I didn’t even get out of my cool spot in the pool. I just let them go. I didn’t need them anymore. They were important while I was reading them, and I would have been lost in a confusing plot had they not been bound tightly together. But with each turned page, that piece of the story became the past.

I don’t think I will be chasing down the other parts to the racism post. I am content that I wrote about them, and for now they can drift silently away. There is still much more to my story. But I am starting to believe that there is more ahead, in the unread pages, than lies behind. The posts and the experiences I have shared have probably not done anything in the way of my defense, or to change the minds of those who are upset by my decisions. But writing them has freed me from much of the weight I carried. Each time I wrote, and shared a piece of myself openly, I felt a little bit of the pain slip away. Post by post my fears and shame about leaving the church came unbound, and freed themselves from the rest of my story.

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