Letter To The Pastor

PROMPT: Write a letter to your (current) greatest fear.

Dear Pastor,

I know you’ll never see this letter. You will never hear from me again. And I wish it was because I was bravely cutting you out of my life, blocking you, refusing you from ever earning the pleasure of talking to me—but it’s not. It’s because I’m afraid. I think of the church, and I think of your car, and I think of how cold it was and how completely and utterly alone I felt with you. You just kept saying, “The Lord this, the Lord that,” or “Good girl, this is how you serve god” or “You will receive everlasting blessings for this” as you forced me onto you. As I whimpered and keened but said nothing out of fear of displeasing you, of displeasing the Lord.

You are the reason I have no faith in religious men. “Men of God,” as they claim. When the first one hurt me, the man in the choir robes, I thought maybe he was a fluke. Maybe I’d just found one man, the needle in the haystack. Maybe others were kinder, gentler, truer. But when you touched me, you made me realize you’re all like that. You all take what you want in the name of the Lord. You assault innocent people and call it “building their relationship with God.” And every devout man who ruined me after you sank their teeth into the bite marks you left within me, re-opening and deepening your wound.

I can’t go into a church because of you. I can’t handle religious holidays—Lent, Easter—because of you. I can’t take it when someone simply says the word preacher because of you. My heart squeezes. My mind races, and suddenly, I’m in that car in December all over again.

I hate that you did that to me. I hope you never hurt anyone again. I hope your retirement is stressful and aimless, and no one reads your stupid blog. You may scare me now, but I won’t let you hold that power much longer.