We made it through church. You can even read the sermon. Everyone was loving and kind. I feel bad feeling bad because everyone is so kind. I hope they know that my feeling bad has nothing to do with them. There is no way ever that anyone is going to fix or ease anything, no matter how kind.
I am a black hole.
So after it was over I felt, I am sorry to say, a sense of dread. The problem is that I need to do it again. And again. And again. Every Sunday until I retire or die with my robe on.
I have nothing to give. All I have are grief and pain.
On the sermon menu are grief and pain. I may be able to serve up a side of bullshit.
My anxiety says, "Who can possibly listen to that week after week? What congregation could be patient enough to wait for me to 'get through this?'"
I know. One sermon at a time. One week at a time. One day at a time. I got it. I'll get up there. I'll do it.
That is what I mean by fake it 'til you make it. It's called surviving.