Today I went to church for the first time in about ten years. It was a non-denominational church founded by a black woman, who is also the pastor. Most of the congregation was made up of older black women and men. My son and I went with my mother, as we were home visiting family on the east coast for a few weeks.

My personal journey in church is a long one, but the short version is this: I was raised spiritual but not religious, although the older generation of my family attended a traditional Baptist church. In high school I joined a very evangelical Christian church. I was drawn to it more for the feeling of community than for the ideology, which was essentially “we are the one true church. All others are going to hell. Do not associate with them except to convert them”. Within a few years it had lost it’s appeal. In college I more or less swore off of organized religion and went back to the idea of spirituality. Since then I have done what I can to learn about  all the world’s religions, without committing to any one. It is a constantly evolving journey.

The first thing I noticed when I walked into the church  with my mom was how uncomfortable I felt in my body. We were a little late, which happens often when traveling with a four month old, so the service had already started. I honestly couldn’t tell you what it was about. I was completely distracted – looking around wondering if it was obvious that I didn’t belong. It probably wasn’t. But I realized that the setup of one person standing in front of a group of people and preaching made me angry, unrelated to what the person was saying. My thoughts were all over the place. Try as I might, I could not focus on the content of the sermon. Eventually the baby started crying (perhaps reacting to my anxious energy) so I excused myself and went outside to feed him. The church grounds were vast and beautiful. We sat in the grass under a tree and watched a groundhog going about his business. We admired flowers, birds and even the bugs. It felt peaceful and holy. It was my kind of worship.

After I had collected myself, I spent some time reflecting on my reaction to the church service. Why had I been so bothered and distracted? I felt like a child. But no one had forced me to come. I realized that my past experiences of church were heavily influencing my reaction, and that I hadn’t even been able to open my heart to this new experience. So I went back in.

This time I focused less on what others might be thinking of me and stayed open. I saw people singing, dancing and smiling. They seemed genuinely happy to be there together. I saw children speaking about their intuition and sharing the lessons they had learned that day about other people’s cultures around the world. One family was about to move to Jamaica. Another had just returned from a trip to India. Everywhere I looked I saw joy and love. My body relaxed and the chip on my shoulder began to melt away.

I know that I still have a lot of healing to do around my past religious wounds. But at least for that moment, I felt at ease among people whose beliefs differed from my own. I was able to recognize and respect the value of what they had built, even if it was not the path I had chosen for myself. In a world so divided, that is no small thing.