Refusing to Pray Made me Feel Free

After decades of listening to sermons that preached otherwise, imagine my surprise.

Photo by Markus Spiske

The last time I ever prayed was in 2017, and it wasn’t really a prayer. It was more of a mic-drop when, at long last, I gave up on the idea of God altogether.

It happened as I was passing a closed rest area in the California desert. I was driving the I-10 from Los Angeles to Phoenix on a warm April day and, though I didn’t know it then, I was at the apex of my spiritual awakening.

God had been shrinking for months. My connection to him had become a push-pull for a while, with him pulling away, and me trying to keep a firm grip. Then I began pushing him away, but strangely, that’s when I felt pulled. Back and forth it went until I gave him the silent treatment for ten months. During those ten months, he grew smaller and smaller and smaller.

That day in the desert, as I passed the rest area where tumbleweeds blew through the deserted parking lot and yellow police tape cordoned off the entrance, I realized I could no longer sense God’s presence. I hadn’t sensed it in a very long time. So I envisioned flicking whatever was left of him at that desolate spot just off the highway.

I felt a shudder of fear and gripped the steering wheel tightly, in case I was wrong; in case hellfire began to fall from the sky. But of course, nothing happened. Except this—a deep sense of peace and calm washed over me.

I knew all the way to my toes, that I was finally free.

The first time I remember praying, I was about three. Lying in my white painted, wrought iron, twin bed, a soft pink comforter pulled to my chin, my mother sat next to me brushing wisps of hair from my eyes. I clasped my fingers together and repeated after her:

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

I didn’t understand the prayer. But as I grew older, I asked my mother if I should be worried that I might die before I wake.

She said no. She said that part of the prayer was for old people who were close to death.

So I didn’t worry. I clasped my fingers each night and prayed the prayer with the same innocent vigor I felt when I put my right hand across my heart and recited the pledge in elementary school. In the same way, I enthusiastically sang the words of church hymns just like I sang along with Mr. Rogers while he changed his shoes and put on a cardigan.

My young brain was a sponge. It sopped up any set of rhythmic words placed in front of me. Those words, and later, their meanings, encircled me, formed me, pigeonholed me.

Shackled me.

Then there were the in-between times. They were fraught.

As a young adult, I memorized Bible verses about how praying to, and trusting in God, would make me free.

When I asked pastors and teachers and church friends why I didn’t feel free, the platitudes were abundant. Everyone had answers—do better, pray more, study harder.

So I did. I did it all. I literally sold my soul. For MANY years.

Because I craved freedom so badly, I could taste it.

But year-after-year, I continued to feel imprisoned by fear, shame, and anger disguised as appeasement. I also felt guilt, because it had to be my fault. Clearly, I wasn’t all-in. God hadn’t made me free because I was too big of a sinner. I stretched myself further and further, the ongoing discomfort of shame stretching me to the point of breaking.

Until I did break.

I snapped. Quit everything. Got therapy.

Basically told everyone in my life to fuck off, including God.

When he didn’t even raise an eyebrow at any of my fuck yous, I flung him out my car window between L.A. and Phoenix.

Almost instantly, I felt free. The feeling I’d searched for had finally arrived. And when I looked down, the shackles had magically disappeared.

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If you’re a regular with NaNoWriMo, you might first want to read this piece by

Leanne Phillips

And, highlighting

Leanne Phillips

once more, this essay completely blew me away.

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Keep your chin up and your eyes open.

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