What I Can't Write About

Hello, friends! At the Festival of Faith & Writing, I began to get a clearer sense of the reasons my own writing practice has felt a bit blocked in recent months. Namely, there’s quite a few things I’ve felt unable to write about—whether because it’s not my story tell, or because I’m not confident in my ability to write about it well, or because I’m afraid of being misunderstood, or…whatever. Sometimes, writing is just freaking hard. While I sat in-between FFW sessions, my notebook in hand, I began to scribble out a list of all the things I felt unable to write about it. Some of that journaling became this post. Thanks for reading, as always.

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I can’t write about our church.

I can’t write about the way the sunlight streamed into the library, surrounded by thick, hardcover art books. I can’t write about the college friend who helped us find our way there, who later started coming herself, whose husband joined our staff. I can’t write about Monday morning staff meetings, how we asked really big questions and dreamed of new ways of doing things. I can’t write about taking communion with my daughter, how her eyes sparkled with joy and truth. I can’t write about the babies who arrived one after the other, how I assumed I’d watch them grow up. I can’t write about how the river rolled by, just beyond the doors.

I can’t write about preaching, how it felt like settling into my body, how my lungs expanded and my heart buzzed, and how afterward, I thought I might sleep for a decade. I can’t write about my secret ambition, the friends who said aloud what I didn’t feel permission to ask, how I wondered if I had finally discovered the art I was most gifted for. I can’t write about how I might never do it again.

I can’t write about the paintings that hung in the gallery on our final Sundays—unfinished pieces by two twin brothers who died too young. I can’t write about the people I loved but haven’t spoken to since, because to begin is a leap my legs are too wobbly to make. I can’t write about the ombudsman who made decisions for us too quickly and the bishop who couldn’t or wouldn’t help. I can’t write about my friend’s marriage, how she chose to save it. I can’t write about the other marriages, the questions I can’t ask of the wives who seemed my sisters. I can’t write about Marco Polo, how my phone no longer dings with the notifications. I can’t write about deleted text threads. I can’t write about severance. I can’t write about silence.

I can’t write about the panic attack I had in the co-working center bathroom. I can’t write about resignation. I can’t write about the way I felt abandoned but fear I am the one who did the abandoning. I can’t write about how I have been a quitter, a leaver.

I can’t write about the other churches—how every single one of them shaped me and formed me and then shocked me with their failure, with their arrogance, their lack of preparedness, all the words they left unsaid. I can’t write about how I never felt full permission to follow my curiosity. I can’t write about how I only ever wanted to be good. I can’t write about anxiety, about endless ignoring via scrolling, about how sertraline prevents tears, almost always. I can’t write about grief. I can’t write about how I’ve never been taught how to mourn.

I can’t write about Jesus. I can’t write about how it’s never been allowed to be just him, this enigmatic man, this storyteller, this healer. I can’t write about how I’m so sure they missed the point, how they asked us to build our home on a rotten foundation. I can’t write about how very sure I am Jesus is still here, out in the wilderness. I can’t write about how I might prefer this sandy desert to any cathedral. I can’t write about how some days I feel lost, and other days I feel free.

I can’t write about church.