Peace...

I don't know if it was sharing the peace or passing the peace, but whatever it was had me fighting every fiber in my body against crawling beneath the pew tonight.  Yes, I went to church.  Yes, it was ever so much harder than I thought it would be.

Tonight was a Thanksgiving service, instead of the normal Wednesday night service.  So, that meant there were many times the normal number of folk there.  I was late, but I arrived in time to still hear  the forgiveness.  I thought that meant things would be good.

Silly Myrtle.
They were not.

There was this time in the service where folk greeted each other.  I SWEAR this is a church plucked up from the 1980s/1990s Bible Belt, brought through time, and plucked down here in Fort Wayne.  OH MY GOODNESS is this a touchy feely, sappy, happy, clappy, outreachy church, albeit a liturgical Lutheran one.

When I realized what was happening, I panicked and ended up shutting down a bit, disassociating that is.  I was terrified and kept my head down, hoping all the folk milling about would just ignore me.  All but one did.  I felt wretchedly rude and terribly inconsiderate and wanted to die.  Yes, I mean that.  I wanted to have my pacemaker fry my heart in some delayed MRI accident right then and there.

And I most desperately wanted to be beneath the pew.
I almost fled there.

I realized, in that moment, how much I needed those sparsely attended Wednesday night services.  I feel comfortable and safe in them, with the few regulars and the strays that show up each week.  I get to hear everything I desire save for the acutely missed absence of chanting and I am given the Lord's Supper most services (not every service is divine).

I thought I was going to be okay until it came time for the emptying of the pews for the Lord's Supper.  This usher I've never seen before put his hand out to either touch my shoulder or help me up from the pew.  In any case, I practically fled from his touch, my heart pounding and my pacemaker revving up.  I was just appalled at my reaction towards him and fervently hoped for a sinkhole to open up right here beneath my pew.

Neither a long-delayed MRI accident nor a sinkhole occurred.

I fled from the pew as soon as the service had ended, still terrified and ashamed.  Deeply ashamed.  And I am thinking that maybe I shouldn't join this church (or any church) come next Wednesday.  For one, I really think that the sight of a 51-year-old hiding under a pew might scandalize some fellow parishioners whilst giving others heart attacks.  I could drive out and/or wipe out a significant chuck of the church membership.

For another, I know that I am still triggered from that blasted CT tech, but this is more the of same.  I am not capable of being around a large group of folk without the PTSD symptoms becoming a factor.  And I doubt I will ever be a person capable of passing the peace or sharing the peace or whatever it was that I was supposed to be doing with peace.  I have no peace.  And I feel like the biggest fraud on the planet being in a house of God.

SIGH.