When I made the decision to leave the church, it didn’t have anything to do with not liking the music, or finding the sermons boring, or old women with fried hair looking down spectacled-noses at me because I have tattoos. It was because I felt like the people I looked to for guidance and acceptance really didn’t care about how my life turned out. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it felt that way. It felt that way strong enough for me to walk away from something I had given the last decade of my life to. I began to believe something must be wrong with me – some intrinsic and flawed characteristic, a chromosome out of whack – something that would keep me from ever being let inside the circle.

I don’t know if this walking away is a permanent thing, or just my mind telling me I need a temporary respite from the institution of church, but I’ve noticed a beautiful thing since I’ve been gone. I’ve noticed people, lots and lots of people, good people, people who want to serve, people with hearts as big as music, people who would, and do, give the coats off their back.

I look at the way they give, at the relationships they build with kids in financially bankrupt schools and emotionally bankrupt families, and I see the complete joy that comes over the kids they serve every single week. I look at these people and I see Jesus. A handful of them are Christians. A few even go to church. Most of them are just vegetarians.

That was its beginning. That was the house. That was the porch. That was the place.
****
April, 2005
The rain was coming down harder now, splashing the tin roof above our house. We sat on the porch, crowded around a patio table, laughing, joking.
Brandon and I were smoking cigars. Nate was smoking his pipe. Derrick was coughing and his face was taking on a greenish hue. He wanted to fit in so bad, but he had never smoked before. My God, he was funny, though! Several weeks earlier, he spent the night …

I never sleep. The three of us have opposite schedules, and I have no walls. My loft is also their home office.
Nick bought a two-bedroom condo for him and his fiancé. Then he called off the wedding. His best friend, Geoff, moved into the spare room and they offered me the loft.
“But I hate that part of Charleston,” I said.
“I’ll only charge you $200 a month,” said Nick.
“How about this: Instead of me living there I’ll give you $200 a month, buy you a shovel, and let you beat the …