I Am Some Body

I've mentioned in several places about struggling with anger. Pain and fear can add up quickly, although I may have found a workaround.

The other day I wrote a long essay about long Covid and chronic illness and posted it on Facebook. Almost immediately, I calmed down. I think I simply needed to explain myself. To say out loud what life had become.

And I figured I should maybe do a little more.

I belonged to this lovely church community for 15 years or so before I got sick. It was the majority of my social life, and I loved these people.

I didn't have a religious upbringing at all. We didn't really talk about it at home, and my parents seemed determined to let us find our own way and make our own decisions regarding the spiritual side of life.

I hoped this gave me an interesting perspective, and I thought about this a lot. As a dubious and doubtful young man, I was charmed by the idea that I might actually find something here I could use.

So I jumped in feet first. I was always leery of getting too involved in the nuts and bolts of my wife's place of employment, but they were small and always could use a volunteer.

So I was allowed to bake bread for communion, for years. I baked a lot of stuff at that church, actually. And emceed talent shows and read scripture and served on the board of elders and led adult education classes and held movie nights and fellowship suppers. I remember some weeks driving that 60-mile round trip four times in those 7 days. I was having a fulfilling time.

And when the pandemic came, I had some skills and learned a lot more, and for 64 weeks I produced a video worship service. It gave me something to do in that confusing time, but it took >50 hours a week and that part made me nervous. A volunteer shouldn't be doing that much – there's no mechanism for supervision.
I tried to get it addressed several times, but I guess there wasn't the bandwidth.

After 22 weeks of this, they found some funds to pay me a little, 10 bucks an hour or so.

When it was over, I was lost, flailing, and a little disappointed that no one thought to ask if things were going smoothly.

I tried to do things for them for a while after I got sick, videos and newsletter stuff, but it just got too complicated; when it began taking me two hours to do a newsletter job that really should have taken 20 minutes, I knew I had to stop.

I only mention the newsletter because that was the last thing I did for church, and the last time I heard from most people. It's really awkward to suggest that these nice people began to ignore me when I had nothing else to offer them, but I think that's exactly what happened.

I watched on YouTube as people mentioned me every week at the beginning of worship – prayers for healing for Chuck, and all those who suffer with chronic illness – but I wondered why no one ever suggested I could use some company. A few people made the drive to my home (it's far, I know) to sit with me, but no one else seemed inspired. I waited for something, anything – maybe a small group making the trek to my home, or arranging a meal somewhere close with escape options, or...

They don't mention me anymore in worship. I used to get a little jolt of contact, watching the livestream, when someone would offer prayers of healing for me. It's a powerful thing to watch from a couch, too tired to move.

Maybe they think one desperate move to try to save my life means I'm all good now. Maybe they think it's awkward that I clearly left home because I wasn't getting the care I needed there. Maybe they think it's my fault.

But when the prayers stopped, I found myself wondering what any of it had really meant. It's so hard not to be cynical.

I have sorrow for the good people who would have helped me if they'd been made aware. I don't want them reading this, and thinking they've hurt me. I can't help that but I wish I could.

But I've been hurt, by the people who could have helped, and whom I wouldn't have hesitated to help in this situation, I think. I have a hole in my soul that will never go away. I didn't leave my church. I watched it ride off into the sunset, away from me.

Service doesn't need a reward, and I certainly never did. I'll never think any of that time was wasted. And I got to know so many wonderful people.

But a year or so ago, I got a flurry of emails from church people. They all were about the same: "Hi! We miss you at church! We're having a bake sale and were wondering..."

And I thought, I couldn't do that. I couldn't ignore a sick person for two years until I needed him to do something. I understand small churches and how they run on volunteers, but I would have been too embarrassed to even consider asking.

I don't understand it. I've always been an observant person, interested in body language and silent signals, and apparently I completely misread this. I was a face of that community. I thought they liked me. I was really wrong.

I know, I know.

But I was.

And it was a church, so, you know. I don't feel abandoned. I feel forsaken.

So I have these dark nights of the soul, when I can't sleep and then realize I can't go on. Cannot. At least until I say all of this out loud.

There was a certain amount of timidity with the leadership of this church, always. I think it was about keeping the peace, but it sometimes bothered me. I used to watch a church member loudly harass visitors in a bizarre attempt to get them to return the following week, while they couldn't get out the door fast enough. I even brought her up a couple of times, hoping we could, as a group, police each other in our mutual interest, but I guess not.

So maybe it was some of that. Maybe they figured my wife had my care covered. I have no idea. I tried. I asked, I suggested, but you know what? I couldn't maintain relationships, and I told folks that. I couldn't do the heavy lifting, I needed some help.

Why wouldn't they help me?

It struck me the other day that if even a small group of my former friends had gotten together, driven up after church and come to visit me, share some laughs and snacks, this all might look completely different. I might still be living in the home I love. I might not have gotten to the point where I thought about taking my own life.

And if you're starting to think, Just move on, man, I want you to understand me. This has been a huge betrayal in my life, and it took over. I began to hang onto the mystery, thinking if I could only fix this, figure out what I did to drive them away, maybe, maybe...

I'll tell you something, though. I stopped drinking 20 years ago, and part of my recovery process was making amends, trying to make up to people in my life for the things I'd done (or not done). I kept that mindset for a long time, so I feel I have a sense of what I've done. I've thought about this a long time.

And I think I just got sick. That's all I did.

I kept asking my wife if she thought people believed I just didn't want to come back to church. She said, of course not, but I still wonder. I sure don't know what people understand about my life after Sept. 10, 2022. All I know is that from the institution itself, from the community as a whole, and from the leadership specifically, as much as I heard occasional words of support, all I really saw was indifference.

I guess I can't swear I know what I would have done. And I sure don't know what Jesus would do.

But I have an idea, I guess.