. . . Yeah, never thought I'd post that one, either.
Thing is though, I can count on one hand the number of people in my life that know I'm a witch. One of those friends, Meagan, is very, very Christian. She's also one of the most loving people I've me in the world.
So, when I told her, I figured she'd be fine. And she was . . . for the most part.
The other night, Meagan called me up, asking to talk. I was free, so I took the phone to my room, and we began chattering. Next thing I know, she wants to know if it's okay to ask me a question about 'what was in your last email'. Paganism. Hoo boy. I didn't mind in the least. Said shoot.
It turns out that, the morning before she got my email, she was in class and one of the girls had a book 'that was very witchy' (Meagan's words, and probably accurate). Meagan hadn't ever really learned much about it, so asked the girl if she'd be willing to explain it to her.
Oh, small major miracles. The girl did.
So Meagan wasn't worried about me being a devil worshipper or dancing naked under the full moon in the middle of Downtown and sacrificing babies to a 'dark god' named 'Sam Hain.' (Oh, Chick Tracts, how they lie . . . ) I tactfully left out any mention of some people's preference to worship skyclad, and the conversation went on. It turns out Meagan isn't worried at all about my beliefs. She's worried that we won't wind up in the same place when we die.
Then the tears came. I spent a half an hour on the phone with her, desperately wishing I could crawl through it and give her a hug. There was the long conversation on reincarnation and why I left Christianity and the Church behind me, and was there anything, anything she could do to convince me otherwise because, while she doesn't want me to be unhappy, she doesn't want to face an afterlife without me, either.
. . . I said no. There wasn't. I asked too many questions to be a good Christian. I'd read to much to be happy there. I spend church services, in the front row, making origami boats out of the service booklets. I never once said 'I'm sorry' or 'I apologise,' though, and I'm pretty proud of that. I love my faith, and who I am because of it. To apologise for that? To treat it like something to be ashamed of? Yeah, I'm not the best example, I suppose - I'm in the broom closet, I don't put my beliefs out there.
But when people figure it out, I don't apologise, either. That isn't right, not in my mind. Not to it.
It's funny. I always imagined a conversation of theis kind, but it was always vastly different in my head. My imagination brought up the image of my dad's mom, my Oma, looking at me in dissapointment, or my Uncle Jon or Aunt Tammy or even my Dad treating me like a lunatic, someone clearly off their rocker. Talking like it was just a phase and I was being stupid. I expected that - Dad's opinions on the books I buy at Barnes and Noble 'because they look cool' tell me to. And oh, don't I wish that excuse didn't hold with him, that he'd actually ask me about it, what's in Scott Cunningham or Raymond Buckland or Sirona Knight or Lady Sabrina or, hey, even Silver Ravenwolf! I discount eighty percent of every word she says, but hey, it'd be a question.
It would be something.
So . . . yeah. I never ecxpected concern. Fear for me. Not my soul, not my sanity . . . me. As a friend, as someone to care about. It wasn't ever something I ever thought I'd encounter.
Is it strange that I'm sort of really glad I did?
- Janie L.
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