After my junior year of college, I went overseas on the last of a string of annual summer mission trips. I sat alone in my room and stared at my Bible, wondering why the words were no longer my sustenance. I was away from my Cal Baptist bubble, and I couldn’t seem to make sense of my faith. My only female teammate was dealing with anorexia and deep psychological issues, and I was on a mission trip, where I felt no desire to share my faith. It was a weird place to be. I was also disgusted by my leader and his constant evangelistic pressure and noisy chewing. (Yes, in my mind, those qualities are equally pressing.) I just wanted to leave.
My senior year, I spent “quiet time” after quiet time sitting on my bed staring at my Bible, wondering when the Word ceased to be my bread. It never failed to take me off guard. I lost a desire to know God through his word, and it was so confusing. Although it was a new feeling, I reminded myself that every day wasn’t going to be an experience of elation or awe, so I carried on.
The year after I graduated, while living in Riverside, I began to wonder if I believed. I had questions, and “it all” started to feel like bullshit. I refused to give up. I didn’t tell a soul. It just couldn’t be. I went to Bible Study Fellowship, for God’s sake. I was hardcore and trying harder than ever before.
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