Christina Murray Poet Free verse

A Different Kind of Good

I grew up in church.
I remember falling asleep on my mom’s lap in the pews.
The preacher saying he kept the sanctuary cold so people would stay awake,
but even he had to know it wasn’t working. 
That place was boring.

I was baptized before I turned eleven.
Was I really supposed to understand what that meant at such a young and impressionable age?
It wasn’t my choice.
It was my parents’ decision. 

I was a child figuring out right from wrong, still being told to ask forgiveness for sins I didn’t fully understand.

We had mandatory Wednesday night Bible studies.
I don’t remember much.
Just hoping Dad wouldn’t ask what I learned,
because I never had the “right” answer.

Mom and Dad seemed so joyful and polished at church,
like they became different people the moment we walked in.
But at home?
It was a whole other reality.

That disconnect always stuck with me.
How easy it was to act holy in front of strangers,
to claim, “Jesus changed us,”
while nothing truly changed at all.

I finally understand the expression “Sunday’s best” and they’re not talking about your clothes. 

We didn’t live a “church life” at home.
At least, not the kind of life they wanted people to think we did.

And I’m not criticizing people who have faith.
I’m calling out the ones who judge others for not believing the same. 
The ones who perform at church and leave their most perfect selves at the door instead of taking it home with them. 

And it’s not that my parents weren’t good people.
They just weren’t the versions they showed to everyone else.
Over the years, I’ve seen that pattern in a lot of people.
That kind of shift seems to be part of the routine.

To me, it never mattered what religion someone followed,
as long as they were decent human beings.

I’m not going to pretend,
I’m not going to change who I am just to impress people who don’t know me outside of a building.

In my early twenties,
I made my own decision about Christianity.
And I chose to step away.
I can’t say I don’t believe in something, 
but I don’t believe in the Christian God.
Not my mother’s God, not my father’s, not my sister’s. 

I don’t pray.
I don’t ask for forgiveness every time I make a mistake.
I learn from it and move on. 
I’m human.
And I’m not a bad person.

To my dad, that’s the biggest disappointment-
that I don’t believe.
That’s the one thing my father wishes he could change.
But isn’t that what parenting is supposed to be?
Raising your kids to choose their own path?

“As long as it’s the right path,” they say.
“And the right path is God.”
Then I guess, in their eyes, I’m lost.
But from where I’m standing, I’m just living.

I’m happy. I’m in love.
I’m raising my kids with the freedom to explore and decide for themselves.
I’m making meaningful friendships,
supporting my friends and family,
caring for animals I probably can’t afford. 
I make choices that feel right for us and for me
and I live by kindness, loyalty, honesty, and love.

So, no.
I don’t believe in your God.
And I don’t feel guilty about it.
Because I’m happy and I’m not spending my life worrying about the judgment of someone who, to me, doesn’t even exist.
And even if he did,
what would give him the right?

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