Have you ever smoked weed on your way to church?
For some odd reason, I thought it would be cool to be intoxicated in the body of Christ. When I was 16-years old, I smoked a joint before I went to church with my mother. What a mistake! As soon as I breached the premises of St. Paul, shame cultivated my soul like a demon possession. It was the beginning of a long beat down.
Because I always hid in the balcony of the church’s sanctuary, I was able to avoid suspicion from my mother – and other members of the congregation. As I sat on the bench stoned with two red eyes, I suddenly thought everybody knew I was under the influence. “They know I’m high,” I thought out of paranoia.
Adding to the shame that I felt, embarrassment and remorse picked at my conscious. Can you imagine going down a road of absolute guilt for two hours? I was drowning, looking up at people watching me and shaking their heads in disapproval.
In my cry for help, I asked God for his mercy: “God, I’m so sorry. I promise if you get me out of this one, I won’t do it again,” I shouted in my head.
I’ve made some crazy, half baked decisions as an at-risk child; however, I will never smoke weed again.