If someone told me I’d be against baptist Christianity or any organized religion when I was a child, I’d tell them, no way!

We moved after my mom and dad divorced, and while things were hard. Dealing with my mom’s emotional highs and lows was worse.

She would never admit it then, but she was distraught. Every little thing made her edgy and becoming a single mom of four was more than I think she even imagined. My brothers and I walked on eggshells when she was around, not because we were terrified of her, but because we didn’t want to make her life more difficult. My oldest brother took the mantel of parent to my middle brother and I, and I was in charge of watching over my little brother. I suppose my life was a movie about hardship from the beginning. Or at least I thought it was (I mean every kid thinks their life is tragic)

Things took a turn when she started going to church. My brothers and I finally felt like we had our mom back. She was happy and free of whatever was hurting her. We spent time together and even on her hardest days, she seemed more at ease. It made me love the church and whatever they did that made my mom so happy.

It made me want to be a part of it.

As expected, we started going to church as a family. Every Sunday, we’d jump into the big red bus, painted with the churches name and head to church. I was never embarassed walking onto the bus, if anything I made the most noise. Laughing and greeting everyone as I got on.

I loved being there. Loved the singing and the stories; loved the smiling faces and the way I felt when I left. I loved it all so much that I even convinced my best friends to come with me.

The pastor of our church was a wonderful man. He was charismatic and kind. He was larger than life. I remember watching him wave his hands around and raise his voice and my body immediately perked up alongside. Even as a young child, I found him entertaining. Sitting in the adult church on a Sunday evening was never boring when Pastor Baker was preaching. Even though my mom had to shake me awake before the call for those hoping to be saved (I was a sleepy child)

Pastor Baker was the one person who made me want to be a part of the church. His teachings of love, understanding and caring held me close and I felt the same happiness and joy my mom did. I knew what my life was going to be, I was going to be a part of my church forever, marry a man like the pastor, and live happily like everyone in my church.

Or so I thought.

As I got older, I saw the cracks, the things that my young eyes wouldn’t see. My best friends stopped coming with me, but I never minded at first. I had my church friends and that was enough. My best friends told me that they didn’t think church was such a great place, but I didn’t believe them. At first.

Then I noticed how people treated Sunday school kids differently from the kids who also attended the christian school within the church. It wasn’t that they didn’t like us, but it always seemed like our teachings were more…judgmental.

I saw how people looked at my mom, a single woman with four kids. There was pity, and embarrassment, and judgment. Side-eyes and whispers seemed to follow us around and no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I couldn’t. How could these people believe in loving thy neighbour, while also judging them for their choices?

In 2009 the final nail struck the cross, and I knew I would never go back to church again.

Pastor Baker, the man who made me fall in love with everything that the church stood for, died. I was heartbroken, devastated, but how the people of the church acted made everything worse.

They took down his photos and removed his name from the walls. His family stopped showing up soon after, and it was like he never existed. I wasn’t going to church much by this point. Working and hanging with my friends was more important. But my mom never said anything to me. She never explained what happened.

The truth was, although he was a happy, bright, and joyful man, the pastor also had OCD. He struggled with the disorder behind closed doors, never letting people see the cracks, never letting others know, but unfortunately lost the fight and took his own life.

His death was a shock, but the way the church handled it made things even worse. Instead of consoling his family and helping the congregation through their grief, the church pretended he never existed.

He brought life to Faithway, he grew it and nurtured it, but when the moment came for the church to give back, they abandoned him.

It was an eye-opening situation. Finding out that God’s love was conditional. Seeing the hypocrisy for what it truly was.

When I finally stepped away completely, I looked out into the world for the beauty and love that I thought existed in the church. I found that beauty in music and nature, but most of all in stories.

Watching movies and television shows or reading books put me in places that were filled with not only tragedy, but love and adventure. There were strong, caring men and wise, creative women. There was knowledge and culture, conflict and resolution. There were answers that I didn’t think I needed and so much more.

It was there that I finally found my place. Not within the pages of a bible, but within the pages of a fantasy fiction book. And I’ve never looked back.

I am writing A Saint’s Bargain as a way to tell a story about religion and morality and how it’s shaped my life. The journey from where I was to where I am came with a lot of questions (many of them are still unanswered). But I want to share a story that may resonate with people who are on their own journey from or to religion. I want to add to the conversation about angels vs. demons, and hopefully, make people question which (if any) is evil.