My Journey To Discover What Constitutes A Good Life

How breaking the rules taught me to live

We sat in white folding chairs.

Bibles were strategically placed under each seat. A man with a robe stood behind a wooden lectern. My friend smirked, snapped, then swallowed her gum. To chew gum in church would be rude. Being a PK (preacher’s kid) meant inching up to the boundary of the rules and occasionally placing a toe over the line hoping no one would notice. Today it wasn’t her father, but a guest speaker giving the sermon. This meant the boundary was more of a finish line to be crossed.

We passed notes throughout the service, scribbles on the edges of the bulletin complete with hearts and smiley faces, emojis of the eighties. We were more interested in who was holding hands at the Friday night football game than Paul’s letters to the Corinthians.

My friend checked her watch several times. How much longer until we could sip juice and devour chocolate chip cookies, pretending to be very good girls?

The pastor started a story about death. His words caught my attention. I can’t remember the exact moment I realized one day I’d die, I do know I was very young, and it haunted me. I craved to know what came next. So, my teenage ears tuned in hoping for answers to my questions.

He went on to preach that after death St. Peter would appear at the pearly gates. There we would be judged. A good life meant entrance through the gates and a bad one meant, well, down you’d go.

His sermon brought more fear and questions than comfort.

What lay beyond the gates? Who declared him judge? How do we know this for sure?

And the question that I’d pondered since I realized my time was limited, what dictated a good life?

Cruising

Later that day, a group of us hopped in my car to cruise around town because the alternative was stalking the local pizza place for cute guys. Too embarrassing.

Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me came over the radio.

“Louder!” My friend snapped her gum and reached from the backseat to turn up the volume. “I’m not allowed to listen to this song.”

Stunned, I questioned why.

“The chorus.”

Immediately, I thought of the sermon. Did listening to Pour Some Sugar On Me mean I wasn’t getting through the gates? In her home, school dances were also prohibited. No dancing?

These rules seemed objectionable. Did St. Peter really care if we danced and listened to Def Leppard? Who did these rules benefit? Not us.

When I questioned my young parents about the sermon, my father quipped “Anything that’s fun is forbidden by the church.”

I laughed and breathed a bit easier.

The question remained.

What shapes a good life?

Everyone had an opinion.

I soon discovered St. Peter wasn’t the only judge I needed to worry about.

When I became interested in a boy I met at choir, it wasn’t long before people warned me of his reputation. Apparently, he had a propensity to party. This too was against the rules.

Not heeding the warning, our friendship morphed into a relationship. He was kind — always kind. That’s what mattered to me.

My seventeen-year-old self struggled to paint the picture of my future while feeling the judgment of those around me.

Then, thank you, Ms. Stover, my senior year she cast me as the lead in the school play. It was the spark I needed to move to New York City after graduation. There I could hide from judging eyes among millions.

Looking back

Those years growing up in a small town taught me the love that can come from people who’ve known you for years. There’s safety in that love. It also taught me the judgment that can come from well-meaning people who expect you to live life as they live, herd mentality.

I couldn’t.

My path led me from New York to California to Florida. I met many people with varying beliefs each carving out a life according to what they valued.

The plank in my eye (Mathew 7:3)

Despite feeling the judgment of others for so many years of my life it took me way too long to see it within myself.

As a parent and a teacher, I certainly had a lot of opinions on how others chose to raise their kids.

Now, I look back at myself in my thirties and forties and see how that judgment smothered the love I could’ve had for many.

Life feels much better when it’s filled with love.

Growth

Today, I’m living in a small town again. Memories from those early years of driving on the hilly roads, seeing familiar faces in the grocery store, and watching fireflies light up the yard have come flooding back. The life I ran from, I’ve returned to.

This time Def Leppard blasts bringing smiles and impromptu awkward dance moves. Less rules, more joy.

I think about that young girl sitting on the folding chair, worried about death, listening to the sermon wanting to understand what constitutes a good life.

If I could go back, I’d whisper to her that the answer lies within,

but then she already knew that.

Thank you for reading my story. Turn it up!