I feel guilty because there is a breast cancer survivor to my right and a woman recently widowed two rows ahead, each of them singing with raised hands and closed eyes. Their faith hasn’t come easy, I know, but I resent them for it. I’ve done everything right. I’ve memorized the Bible verses and observed my quiet time. I’ve studied the famous apologists and taken the right classes. There was no great personal tragedy to shake my foundations, no injustice or betrayal to justify my falling away—just a few pesky questions that unraveled my faith like twine and left me standing here unable to sing
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