Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 56

When anxiety becomes a way of life

Have you ever had a moment when you wondered if you were meant to see something, or run into someone, at a very critical moment?

That’s what happened to me this afternoon. The following bumper sticker seemed to be screaming READ ME, SB! in the parking lot of the public library: “Eat right, exercise regularly, die anyway…So enjoy!”

Gotta love those backhanded inspirational quotes. It was meant to be silly, but it still got me thinking.

Outside of medication and therapy, what more is there to do about daily anxiety? I know worrying solves nothing. But the act of turning my thoughts elsewhere, to forcing myself to dwell on the positive, is like trying to run while stuck in a bowl of jello.

On the days when I feel like the writer of Ecclesiastes, who famously states “There is nothing new under the sun, everything is meaningless,” I try to remember the following things:

My stories may not be perfect, I may never get to a place of success that I dream about…but a handful of people told me they enjoyed them, so they aren’t meaningless.

I’m a deeply flawed person, I may have pissed off a great deal of people in my short lifetime…but I also have a handful of loyal, encouraging people in my life, and they are enough.

Few things go the way I think they should, the way they do for a lot of people I can’t help but envy…people who seem to get through life with the expected bumps and bruises, but no major traumas – the kind that emotionally paralyze you. People who had relationships that didn’t work out, but none that blew up in flames. People for whom many good things seem to come easily.

For every time I’m tempted to mourn anything that seems unfair, I think, Why should life be fair? This doesn’t make me feel better, necessarily, but it gives me some perspective. To mourn unfairness is to hold myself up as someone who is too good to struggle, too privileged to experience hardship.

Funny, all my favorite characters in books are ones who struggled in some way. I have zero interest in reading books about perfect people. Why should my life be any exception?

I can only do so much. That’s much better than the bare minimum.

Depression and anxiety make it hard to see the world as a beautiful place, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t pockets of beauty that exist somewhere.

My best moments of clarity often come through random acts of self-care: a hot cup of coffee while sitting on the porch, a purring kitty on my lap while reading a timeless novel.

If all your immediate needs are met in this particular moment, accept that that’s the best you can do. And that, for now, it’s enough.

No, I’m not calling Jesus a liar: Christians and responses to depression

During my one-year stint as a counseling major at seminary, I’ll never forget the first day of my last semester. The professor asked the class to stand up, and if you believed it was a sin to have depression, move to the left side of the classroom. If you believed it wasn’t a sin, move to the right.

My stomach clenched instantly, even though everyone in the class moved to the right side of the classroom.

All but one person.

Naturally, the professor called this person out, asking her to explain and defend her position. The woman looked to be around my mother’s age, and her response was a single statement: “If you have the true joy of Christ, you would never have an excuse to be depressed.”

That same semester, I joined a club exclusively for writers. The Subject du Jour of that group just happened to be sexual abuse, as most of us were either survivors or closely affiliated with one. Writing was our way of processing its heavy toll. But, again, there was one person who stood out by saying, “Why are we spending so much time talking and writing about this, when we could be writing about healing?”

“Writing is healing,” I explained to her (with an extraordinary amount of self-control).

“No,” she insisted. “Jesus is healing.”

“Writing can be a gift from Jesus to help with healing,” we pointed out, but the woman held her ground: “What are you saying about the power of Jesus, then? That he isn’t enough? Are you calling him a liar?”

That, right there, is one of a myriad of reasons I could no longer stay at seminary; why I could no longer affiliate with certain church groups. I didn’t have the words to explain myself back then (I only had blinding rage) but I have a few words now I’d like to say in response.

Joy may be a by-product of a relationship with Jesus, but it’s not a requirement.

Some of the most influential leaders in the Bible struggled with depression. How can we forget Psalm 44:24, when David cries, “Do you forget me, Lord? Why do you hide your gave from me?” Or Jesus himself taking time to be alone and weep when death was imminent? What about history’s numerous martyrs – what’s more depressing than being burned alive?!

Deeply-held convictions don’t have to be swayed by what the body feels. Strained relationships don’t equal broken relationships. If you’ve ever loved someone when they weren’t acting very lovable, you understand what this means.

For some people, depression is a chemical imbalance in the brain that must be treated like any other illness. For others, it’s triggered by tragic circumstances.

I don’t know if there’s a chemical imbalance in my brain or not. But I know that depression has woven its way into my life from watching a loved one die of cancer and experiencing an abusive relationship that lasted from the end of high school through college. My biggest concern is that I’m pressing on toward healing rather than choosing to remain stuck. I accept that this could be a life-long process. What is sinful about a person recognizing that they have a problem and choosing to seek help? What part of living in a broken world tells us that healing must be immediate?

Most importantly,

If you self-righteously judge the quality of my faith by my struggle with depression, you will not motivate me to get better. You will only enable me in staying stuck.

True, no one can make me do anything. I always have the choice to choose bitterness or betterness. It’s the motivation to choose betterness that evaporates when Christians tell me I have weak faith, instead of encouraging me and asking what they can do to help.

Aren’t Christians supposed to work together as a community? Don’t we all have unique spiritual gifts? Why does it never occur to some Christians that the answer to our prayers for healing could be found in each other? There are people with the ability to prescribe medication that can help manage chemical imbalances; there are people with an ability to just sit and listen, and communicate more love and empathy in a hug, a smile, or a nod than others try to do with a thousand verses pulled out of context.

Shame is a motivator for nothing but locking the gates of a self-made prison.

Finding success as a writer: the little victories add up

I haven’t dropped my goal of becoming a bestselling author (whatever that even means), but I did get realistic and made a list of smaller, much more doable goals in the meantime. Not making it onto a USA Today or NYT book list doesn’t equate to failure. Every Big Victory is made up of smaller victories:

Victory #1: Publishing the book

Before even getting to the sales part, that’s the first big step! Not everyone who finishes a book gets to the publishing part: it’s daunting and a lot like that recurring dream of showing up to take your math test naked. It’s vulnerable and brave to put yourself out there to be read and critiqued, so good job!

Victory #2: People are buying the book

This counts, even if your only customers are friends and family (so far). Your friends have other friends who are not your friends. Don’t discredit the power of word of mouth. I’m a huge evangelist for books that have a strong impact on me.

I’ve read some rants from authors about low sales during some months, but I’m just glad I sell any books at all…although I admit, I was REALLY excited when I sold 22 books in June, and a little crushed when I only sold seven in July. But still, any sales at all are always better than none. Always.

Victory #3: Getting reviews

Maybe your reviews will come from friends and family in the beginning. But still! Reviews help future readers who are browsing and looking at your book. Considering the number of people who say, “Yeah, I’ll get to it” when asked to write a review but never actually do, consider any review you get to be a victory, because it is. Even a small number of reviews are better than none!

But sometimes even one extremely heartfelt review is a huge victory. The first review that ever made me cry was from someone on Goodreads who said my book Someone You Already Know helped her in her healing process as a survivor of rape. That meant a lot. That keeps me writing.

Victory #4: 1-star reviews

Yes, I’m serious. My first instinct after reading my first 1-star for Public Displays of Convention was to blast “Mean” by Taylor Swift on repeat, but then I realized: 1-star reviews are proof to readers that someone other than your mom has read your book. That’s a big deal.

Victory #5: Building up a readership

In the two years I’ve been publishing books, it was only 10 months ago that I heard that buzz-phrase “build a readership.” So I got a Twitter account, a Facebook business page, created this blog, and started setting aside more time to engage with people who have similar interests. If people whom you’ve never met offline are starting to hear about you, whether it’s ten or ten thousand, that’s still a victory: people know you exist, and even if they don’t buy your books, at least they’ll know your books exist, too.

This non-exhaustive list feels small compared to the success of other indies I know, but I made it because I compare myself to others constantly: that’s a death trap. This list helps me remind myself that every big name in publishing started where I am right now. However you define “success,” remember it comes from a bunch of little things all rolled together over time.

Read other posts in the Indie Author Life series, and check back next week for more.

That one time I was assumed to be a “Cradle Christian”

My days of trying to fit in with my college ministry can best be described as a fish learning to fly. I was making friends, but I also felt extremely inadequate, surrounded by Christians who had been Christians since diapers. Outside of that, when I met new people who knew nothing of my past, the cross necklace I wore gave the impression that I was a “cradle Christian” as well.

That’s not wrong or anything. It just bothered me because that isn’t me at all: I’m not and probably never will be someone who fits the curious, cultural Christian ‘normal.’

I’ll never forget my first day of Sociology class my junior year, and the odd series of events that happened after that. I arrived a few minutes early, so after selecting a seat at the back of the auditorium, I quietly read my bible. Soon I was interrupted by a tap on my shoulder and a voice that chirped, “Whatcha readin’?”

This intrusion by a complete stranger felt rude and startling. Upon turning around, I’m embarrassed to say my annoyance quickly evaporated when I saw that the person who interrupted me was a guy, and he happened to be quite attractive. From the get-go, he assumed I was one of those nerdy Jesus Freaks. He nicknamed me “Christian Nerd,” which eventually got shortened to just “Nerd.” I couldn’t come up with any clever nicknames for him so I just called him by his given name: Ryan.

Every day he would sit next to me, and every day he would greet me with, “What’s up, Nerd? Save any souls lately?” I always brushed him off, but was oddly flattered that my spiritual devotion was recognized in such a way that didn’t make him want to run in the opposite direction. When I used to tell people I wanted to be a rabbi, one of two things would happen next: they would be very interested and want to know more, or wonder what planet I just landed from.

Ryan seemed to have me all figured out within the first week of class. He thought I was from a family of devout Christian Republicans who home-schooled me, forbid me to wear makeup, listen to secular music, go on dates, or see any movie rated higher than PG.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was descended from a long line of liberal Jews who always voted Democrat, drank, cursed, and believed the only unforgiveable sin was rooting against the New York Yankees.

He was funny at first, but the constant heckling about my apparent prude-like ways was starting to get old fast.

Then one day he asked for my number, which led to asking me out for lunch after class. I let his good looks get in the way of my good judgment by saying yes.

Meeting for lunch at Wendy’s after class became a tradition, until one day he informed me that, while I was cute and all, he didn’t see me as a potential girlfriend because I was…wait for it…too Christian for him.

From “too Jewish” for Simon at Hillel to “too Christian” for Ryan in the span of a single year. Go figure.

Excerpted from Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter

More Things You Shouldn’t Say to an Indie Author

Last week’s post in the Indie Author Life series – 5 Things You Should Never Say to an Indie Author – proved just how tight-knit the indie community really is. I deeply appreciate all the ‘likes,’ the reblogs, tweets, and most especially, all the “Me, too!” comments. The post was so successful and the responses so overwhelming, I’m posting a ‘sequel’ this week.

My new author friend Rachel Thompson and I organized a poll for more writers to share their stories of ignorance and disappointment from people who mean well, but just don’t understand how publishing works…or how difficult it can be.

More things you shouldn’t say to an indie author:

“Who published your book?”

Just like you should no longer assume that every person you meet is heterosexual, don’t assume that every author’s books are published in the traditional way. A better question to ask is “How was your book published?” It may seem like semantics to you, but trust us: it sounds a lot better.

“I’d love to write a book, too. But I don’t have time right now- I’m too busy with my career.”

This doozy can be extremely annoying to those of us whom writing IS a career: or are working very hard to get there. I have separated people into two groups: those who like to write, and those who are writers. The writers are the ones who get published: somehow, in some way. They make it a priority. They cannot imagine life happening around them without writing as a way to make sense of it all, because writing is a way of processing. And when writing is shared, it communicates a grain of truth about the human experience.

Those who like to write, on the other hand, are people who do it when they have time. There are bigger priorities in their lives, and that’s fine. If they get to it, they get to it. But in my opinion, a book written by someone who ‘likes to write’ is not as good as one by someone who LIVES to write. I can’t explain how I can tell the difference, but I can.

“Hey, wanna write my life story for me?”

Can’t say I’ve heard this one (yet) but more than one person mentioned it, so it must be real! It’s flattering that you think enough of someone’s writing skills to ask this, but writers tend to be very busy people. Ghost writers exist for this very purpose. Also, be aware that if you ask someone else to write your book for you, they are entitled to a portion of royalties. Are you okay with that?

“That’s nice you get to stay home and write stories all day.”

That’s like telling a stay-at-home mom that it’s nice she gets to stay home while her babies sleep all day and play quietly. Our writing is a business; it doesn’t always go the way we want it to. There are good days, and then there are times when there’s more coffee making, vodka tipping, hair pulling, and venting than getting anything productive done. Have you ever had a workday like that?

Finally, here is a look at the long-term impact a few careless words can have on someone who is trying to be a successful writer (out of respect to those who submitted, all these quotes are anonymous):

My husband has repeatedly said it’s not a real job because I don’t earn enough and I don’t put in the same effort as with a “normal” job.

I think the worst is my family who has never really read my writing…it’s not that I expect me family or friends to like what I write. I know that choosing what we read is much more complex than that BUT so much of who I am is in what I write so if you aren’t reading it you really don’t have a chance of truly knowing me.

“Oh, is that, like, on your bucket list?” (In response to the process of writing a first novel.) I find this question insulting. As if writing a fucking novel is on the same level as a long weekend spent fly-fishing in Montana.

I had a friend on Facebook who wrote me something like “All you do is travel to nice places and have fun,” to which I was going to respond “No, actually, all I do is WORK in nice places. I spend 12 hours or more every day writing, marketing and building a career for myself, instead of sitting somewhere I hate, doing something I don’t want to, lining someone else’s pockets.” I didn’t in the end, I just deleted him.

Friends, family members, and new acquaintances, I’m sure you mean well when you ask us questions about our books. We love your questions! Just think carefully about what you ask, and how. Respect the fact that we are people who have chosen a long, twisty route to fulfilling our dreams. Your support means everything.

Lessons my father taught me

If you’re lucky enough to be raised by a good father, as I was, you may be tempted to hold him up as the epitome of all fathers. But I’m not one of those daughters. I know my dad wouldn’t want to be elevated to an impossible standard of perfection. He isn’t perfect. Neither am I.

I’m the kind of daughter to really test a parent’s patience. I guess by most people’s standards, my antics weren’t that crazy: I never went wild with drugs, alcohol, or gangs (though I did get tattooed, and Dad was less than thrilled about that). I’m the daughter who defied family tradition by going to church when I was raised in synagogue. Took the risk of permanently hurting his feelings when I legally changed my name (it was his grandmother I was named for, after all).

In recent years, we fought over things: some legitimate, but mostly not. We said some hurtful things. I took the first chance I got to move 1,500 miles away, with no intentions of turning back.

I could have been a lot better. I could have done a lot worse. That applies to both of us.

It sounds strange, but cancer didn’t seem like a big deal at first. At age twelve, I knew plenty of people died from it – but they were all elderly. My dad was still young and healthy. We live in a first-world country with the best medical treatments available. He’d be fine.

I often ask myself which is the better scenario: to have a loved one taken from you in an instant; to be woken up by a frantic phone call in the middle of the night, alerting you that your relative was struck and killed by a drunk driver, or shot in a drive-by, when the real target was the guy standing behind him. Or, is it better to know ahead of time that your loved one is dying by degrees; to prepare accordingly, and say what you need to say before the moment is gone forever.

Both are tragedies. I can only speak some degree of wisdom about the latter.

For me, I needed those extra years. Who’s to say I wouldn’t still be in Colorado right now, living my own life, without concern for making amends. I’ll be honest: I am the kind of person who is sometimes content to leave things broken because the effort to try and fix them is too time-consuming and too humiliating. I’m someone who needs time to stew for a while before I can start being a grown-up and clean up my messes. But sometimes I just don’t.

My dad, thankfully, is the opposite. I have his hair, his nose – his whole face, really – but not as much of his personality as I’d like: the kind of traits that would make my life a lot easier, because they would improve the quality of my relationships with a lot of people.

My father wouldn’t let me run away. He called me, faithfully. Sent me funny cat memes on Facebook. Waited anxiously for me with my mom at the airport on holiday breaks. Unlike me, he is not a grudge-holder. He’s a man who knows that time is precious.

For years, I watched the cancer cripple my father. I watched, with increasing devastation and helplessness, as my previously active father, head coach of the high school track team, began to lose his mobility. It’s as ugly as you can imagine.

But the one comfort I have in this shit-storm is the knowledge that there’s nothing else I need to say that hasn’t already been said. At the end of the day, nothing matters more than “I love you,” and I say it as often as I can, while I can. Everyone should.

I don’t have a perfect dad (no one really does). But I have a dad who doesn’t believe in wasting anything, whether it’s leftover wine sauce from dinner, plastic bags to scoop up dog poo, or a limited amount of days. I have a father who knows how to make those days count. My uncle, his brother, asked if he’d want to just travel as much as possible, soak up as many new experiences as he could. That may appeal to some people, but that’s not what Dad wanted. He only wants to be with his family.

In a world with an alarming number of deadbeat sperm donors, I don’t know why I was blessed to have a dad who taught me how to tie my shoes, ride a bike, drive a stick shift, and quit being so stubborn all the time. Unlike Dad, I don’t believe in good people: but I think my father comes pretty darn close.

I love you, Pop Pops. Thank you for all that you’ve taught me.

(You’re forgiven for never getting me that pony)

5 Things You Should Never Say to an Indie Author

The next installment of the Indie Author Life series:

This post can apply to a variety of people, not just authors. Some of it also applies to traditionally-published authors. Bottom line: ignorance of the publishing industry is a daily reality that drives us crazy at best, and makes us wonder why we bother writing at worst.

5 things you should never say to an indie author:

When are you REALLY going to get published?

Somehow, despite the fact that my book is available on a number of online retail sellers – most notably, Amazon and Barnes & Noble – some people are still under the impression that no agent = not ‘really’ published. If someone’s books are available for purchase and they earn a royalty for each, guess what: that means it’s been published!

On that note…

How much do you make?

This is a rude question to ask anyone, period. If you mean to ask how much royalty I earn, the answer would be 70%. But as for my monthly earnings? Yearly? That’s none of your business.

How’s the writing hobby going?

Any allusion to writing as anything but a career, be it a hobby, a past-time, or something that’s ‘just for fun’ is offensive. It takes time for an author to build a solid platform and readership. We’re working our butts off to try and stand out among the thousands of other authors who churn out a new book every few weeks or so. According to one source, that comes to roughly 10,000 self-published books per year. You may think we’re crazy (and we probably are), but please respect our dedication to what we do.

Why don’t you just get an agent?

There’s no such thing as ‘just’ getting an agent; it’s a lot more complex than that. I haven’t ruled out the possibility of querying someday, but I’m enjoying being my own boss for the time being.

Why don’t you get a real job?

As previously mentioned, building a platform is one of the hardest parts about being a writer: in my opinion, it’s harder than writing the book itself. Very few people enjoy overnight success. Since I’m in this for the long haul, I expect it will take years before I can expect my books to pay the bills. But there’s nothing else in life I’d rather do, so I’m willing to accept disappointments and failures along the way to achieving my goals. There is no shortcut to anything worth doing.

But here are some things you can do to help your favorite indie authors…

On triggers and violating personal space

I’m one of those people who places tremendous value on personal space. Get too close, and I get very uncomfortable very fast. I only cuddle my cats and my fiancé. I only hug close friends and family members. I’ll shake strangers’ hands, but that’s about it.

Some people are naturally like this, but for me, I know it’s a repercussion of PTSD; something I’m trying to figure out if I need to manage better or learn to live with. For people who aren’t aware, this might make me come off as a huge bitch. Consider the following scenario and let me know:

Today, I’m at my favorite coffee shop and notice the big red couch is free. Yes! That couch is never free! I happily sit down and stretch out. It’s a lovely change of pace for the hard seats that make my butt go numb after a while.

Enter an adult male who sits right next to me on the same couch. Worth noting: there are only half a dozen other patrons in here. There are plenty of other available seats (including another couch and cushy chair). I try not to flare up, but he’s sitting six inches from my foot (I’m guessing). I can smell him. Like a reflex, I start to sweat.

I think: Well, what right do I have to tell this guy where he can and cannot sit? I don’t own this couch, and this is a public space.

I think: If this punk doesn’t get up right now, I’m gonna have a conniption the size of Texas.

The guy did get up and leave eventually – allowing me to breathe again. Maybe I’m letting my personal issues get in the way of respecting others, of being charitable and understanding in a public vicinity, where people are free to move about.

But this isn’t the first time I’ve had guys sit near me when there were plenty of other seats available. This guy in particular didn’t seem like the type who enjoyed getting a rise out of getting too close, but I’ve seen others make intimidation a spectator sport: pulling out my headphones to tell me I’m pretty, following me when I get up and waiting outside the restroom door to ask me how I’m doing, asking me what book I’m reading and if I come here often, even when I’m giving VERY CLEAR SIGNALS that I want to be left alone.

Why do men do this? Why does anyone do this?

This guy today probably saw the couch and thought, Oooh. Comfy couch! and nothing more. The bitchy-looking girl with the “I’m Silently Judging Your Grammar” t-shirt was probably an afterthought, if I was even a thought at all.

I probably overreacted. Freaking out about sharing my seat space probably wasn’t the most ‘Christian’ thing to do. But given the history of people – typically men – who don’t understand the boundaries of personal space, even in public, can you blame me?

“I’m not gonna write you a love scene…”

You may have noticed lately that YA literature is a lot sexier than it used to be. From beer to books, we all know sex sells…but it doesn’t have to (unless your genre is erotica. Then have at it). I’ve been asked by some readers of Where There’s Smoke why the “fade to black” scenes weren’t more explicit. Why? Because I didn’t want them to be!

All that to say, here is my response to the temptation to sex up my books to sell more copies. To be sung to the tune of “Love Song” by Sara Bareilles:

Head over to Goodreads

And they tell me

To read easy for a while.

But reviews get harsher,

Even I know that.

NA or YA, it’s plain to see

There’s an increase of sex scenes

I’m usually hard to give in to…

Blank stares and blank pages

No easy way to say this

You want more, but you make this hard on me…

I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you asked for it, ‘cause you need one

You see, I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you tell me it’s make or break in this industry

If you want more pay.

I’m not gonna write you to stay-ay-ay…

If all you have is leaving I’m gonna need a better reason

To write you a love scene…today

I learned the hard way

That they all write

Things they wanna read.

My heavy heart

Sinks deeeep downnnn underrrr…

You and your twisted words!

They’re losing their shirts!

You are not who I thought you were!

Hello to 1-star goodbyes…

Convinced me to please you

Made me think the characters need to screw!

I’m trying to let you hear me as I am…

I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you asked for it, ‘cause you need one

You see, I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you tell me it’s make or break in this industry

If you want more pay.

I’m not gonna write you to stay-ay-ay…

If all you have is leaving I’m gonna need a better reason

To write you a love scene…today

Promise me

You’ll read my next one

To help me see

That not all characters need to get it on

‘Cause I believe there’s a way

You can love me because I say…

I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you asked for it, ‘cause you need one

You see, I’m not gonna write you a love scene

‘Cause you tell me it’s make or break in this industry

If you want more pay.

I’m not gonna write you to stay-ay-ay…

If all you have is leaving I’m gonna need a better reason

To write you a love scene…today

If you wanna know they ‘did it,’

You won’t waste another minute

Babe I’ll keep it rated PG

Unless there’s just a real good reason

For me to write you a love scene

Todaaaaayyy…!

Doubting Thomasina: the struggle of being a Christian with questions

It’s been six years since I first prayed to Jesus on the bathroom floor, and I’ve let go of my childhood desire to be the first Jewish saint. Or any kind of saint, really.

In some ways I feel I’ve outgrown my fascination with Joan of Arc. She’s still my favorite historical figure, but I no longer desire to be her. Maybe it’s cheesy, but I can only be myself: contradictory, fantastically screwed-up, always curious, still somewhat prodigal, but never boring.

Every day is a process. Every day is a challenge.

I realize today that there’s more to Christianity than evangelicalism, but it’s hard to decipher what’s true Christianity and what’s Christian culture. I think I’m okay living without the latter–many of its precepts are damaging: unhealthy instructions about submission (abusive Christian relationships were rarely mentioned), sexual education was driven by shame for our bodies rather than appreciation for being made in God’s image, relations with non-Christians were treated with an “Us vs. Them” mentality.

The more I wrestle with faith, the more I start to believe it’s better to be the kind of Christian who admits “I don’t know,” rather than throwing out the parts of the bible that don’t make sense. I really struggled with this when Dad was diagnosed with cancer for the last time, just months before my wedding. I longed to be Jewish again, to return to my roots: I even had the Hebrew word for “life” tattooed on the inside of my wrist–the same symbol Dad always wore on a gold chain around his neck (a gift from his father).

Watching his health rapidly deteriorate, I realized I didn’t know for sure what I believed about the afterlife anymore. I also realized there are some things Jews handle better than some churches I’ve attended recently: things like grieving. Jews, who are no strangers to suffering, don’t overly theologize pain. In my experience, Jews don’t have the same pressure to reframe it in a more sanitary context, assuring the sufferer that there’s a higher, holy purpose for this awful situation. Rather, they accept it for what it is. They aren’t afraid to simply say, “That really sucks.”

I wish more Christians realized that sometimes it’s perfectly okay to say that. Sometimes empathizing, not theologizing, is the most Christ-like response.

But I won’t go back to my pick-and-choose habits again. I continue pressing on because, as confusing as Christianity can be, I still believe Jesus is a man worth knowing. A man worth living for. He’s the original anti slut-shamer: a man who talked to prostitutes, humanizing them while the rest of society would have preferred to have them stoned. He’s a man who, after rising from the dead, chose to appear before a woman in a time when a woman’s testimony in court was worth the same as a criminal’s. He’s a man who championed underdogs when he could have had a direct way in to the Pharisees’ Cool Table.

He’s unique, this Jesus. And God willing, I will continue pursuing him until the end, no matter how difficult it gets.

I believe in a God who embraces our questions. It shows we are serious about seeking him.

Excerpted from Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, revised edition