My fading denim skinny jeans and too-short black top seem a bit tacky in this warm room full of button-ups, slacks, and flowing dresses. I hold on to the Styrofoam cup I just filled to the brim with sweet coffee, hoping it can bring me back to where I feel safe. I don’t feel comfortable here, in this place of worship that I had no right to enter just 10 minutes ago.

My friend smiles at me as the church’s band begins to sing. I don’t know the tune, so I decide to read the two screens on either side of the stage. The lyrics make my chest tight. I don’t know what to do. I won’t sing the words because I don’t believe them.

There’s a father two rows away on my right side. His red shirt stands out in the dimly lit room. His hands raise higher and higher as the chorus progresses in this song about feeling safe in the arms of the Lord, and I have never felt so alone.

He closes his eyes as his arms fully stretch out before him as if he’s reaching for God, as if Christ is there before him, so tangible and real and everything he ever wished for.

It breaks my heart as the room bends down to their knees with their hands enclosed, their heads bent as they kneel to their Great I Am with hope surging through their hearts.

I want to cry.

Years ago, I was called outside of youth group at the local church to accept Jesus into my heart. The dark-haired young woman had asked me to feel the light of him flow through me, to enter into my soul and make me whole. She had asked me if I felt different somehow.

“Yes,” I lied. “I feel it here.”

I held my hand to my chest, gut churning with guilt. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I was so, so young and I didn’t understand the meaning of faith. I just wanted to get on that yellow bus every Sunday morning, get a piece of candy, and sit with other kids my age.

Acceptance wasn’t a part of that deal.

The preacher talks about King David and how he learned to accept rejection. He made connections to how children cannot accept the word “no” and that they must mature to understand that their parents and their elders and their God know better, that they know more about the world because they’ve seen it and because they said so.

My right leg is jumping up and down and I already drained my cup of coffee. I zip up my jacket like it is a shield from the others in this room. I feel as if I’m being judged in this house of Jesus. I feel as if I’ve committed an awful sin by sitting in this room with no belief in the man this room loves so dearly.

The final prayer begins and the room falls silent. Hands are clasped once again. Eyes close, heads bend, and bodies still. I look over these groups of strangers, wishing I could see religion through their eyes. I wish I could have the kind of faith they do.

I once thought I could be the girl that wakes up every Sunday morning to learn about her Lord. I thought I could pray with the other teenagers, that I could understand why this man who saved us all meant so much to the world.

The only time I feel close to Jesus is when my mom lays in a new hospital bed. I pray to God as if my sudden hope in the Almighty Lord might save my mom’s life this time around.

It always does.