on saturday i chased my tail and this is how i found it

So, I'm sat by the door of the front room in the house we're staying at. We, as in everyone in the room, are having a bit of a session, trying to sort some issues out with the man upstairs via the power of prayer and some good old-fashioned soul-searching. They, as in everyone in the room apart from me, are doing this in groups of twos or threes. I, as in me, by myself and I, am sat by the door and I'm about 5 seconds away from walking out.

I've done this one many a time before. It starts with a feeling of unease, like, hang on, this doesn't feel quite right, how come I can't connect with the worship, why can't I stop fiddling with my hair and pulling at my clothes, why do I feel so... bad? Then it changes, adapts to my surroundings, like, they're all doing this so much better than I am, how come I'm not feeling it, how come no one else is feeling shit, how come I'm feeling like I always used to feel at church...

This is an old feeling, it isn't a good feeling. This is the curse of the charismatic church, or of any church that doesn't conduct its business standing in pews with lacklustre regularity. So much focus on expressing and feeling and being 'real' makes it hard to fake - I love my kind of church, but damn if it doesn't sometimes feel like if you're not speaking in Hebrew and floating three inches off the floor you're doing something wrong.

Sometimes I wish I could just sit back on my cold wooden bench and let the liturgical good times come rolling. If this was church as my parents knew it I'd be sat, back straight, fire and brimstone, reeling off the books of the New Testament and looking up the dirty bits in the Old when I thought no one was looking.

But there's no fun in that, and besides, this isn't the church of my parents. This is my church, and I'm sat on a green carpet, a cup of tea by my side, with a shaking back in front of me, the sound of someone's tongues to my left, the draught from the corridor to my right, the open door supporting my weight. I've got a dog-eared, everything-stained bible on the floor beside me, a couple of felt-tip pens in my lap. All I can hear is voices, people praying, singing, murmuring, weeping softly and staring out at something right now so invisible to me.

Dear God, I think, you've got 5 seconds to impress me, 5 seconds to change my mind. All these hugs being shared, these prayers spoken, these prophetic words being flung about the place - how hard can it be for you to fling one my way?

All these voices... then there's another one in the mix, you know, the still one, the small one that people like to blame for wars and helping people. I don't so much hear it as feel it, the words are already there. They say: it's been half an hour, and you're still here.

I look at the clock. This is undeniably true. I've been sat here threatening to walk out for half an hour. Actually, if I'm honest about the great long prayer meeting that's been my two years as a Christian, I think I've spent most of it threatening to walk out. And yet, somehow, I'm still here.

Still here, still pissed off. I don't get this. I'm in this for keeps now, I'm never gonna walk out because I just can't, I can't turn my back on this now, you won't let me. You've gotta cut me a break, either make me feel better or let me the fuck go.

I don't know if God finds it funny when I swear at him, but I'd swear I heard someone laughing.
My time. Not yours.

Fine, I concede, if that's the way you want it that's the way we'll do it.

This is the thing about trust, you see. It means not questioning someone, not being a backseat driver, or worse, trying to wrestle the wheel out of their hands. Saturday night worked out fine in the end, better than fine. I spoke to an Irish woman called Jessie who put oil on my forehead and told me my name was joy.

Now there's all these questions, and I know nothing at all.

How long can I keep claiming to trust God when I'm secretly convinced that nothing and no one can ever fix me?
How long am I planning to do this faith thing with one foot outside the door and half my mind already slamming it behind me?
How long 'til I stop craving someone to tell me I'm beautiful?
How long 'til I actually believe someone when they do?
How long do I keep feeling like this?

How long do I keep writing like this?