To Be Human

Growing up as a child in the evangelical, Christian church, I was told, time and again, to be in but not of this world. The world was a prison and a place to be escaped. Heaven was my home, and if I was good enough, someday I might be allowed to return there. My body was a temptation and a trap. It was best if I acted as if I didn’t have one. Humans were fallen. I should desire to be more like God — and humbly acknowledge that I would never rise to such holy heights.

I did my best to be a good girl, to follow all the rules, to be in but not of this world. If it felt good, if it was fun, if I desired it, I dutifully (and prayerfully) turned my back on it and willed myself to keep my eyes on the prize: a white robe, a golden crown, and Heaven as my home.

But being good felt so bad. Other humans lived, danced, sang, played an instrument, made love, drank wine, slept under the summer stars, swam naked in wild waters, and lovingly made peace with this life and all its scars while I studiously avoided even the very appearance of being alive. Their broken earthiness was beautiful to me. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to live! I wanted to be human.

My (then) preacher-husband was not having it. The night I passionately confessed, I just want to be human!, he set his jaw. His eyes flashed. It was the beginning of the end. I just didn’t know it then.

However sinful my sincere desire may have been, the prayer of my heart was answered. I became of this world — a human. And strangely, somehow, that feels like heaven.