I’ve been going to my church for three years come this April. I’ve had some amazing times! But I remember the first time I saw what is now my church. I felt quite different that day than I do now when I go there. The tall foreboding building conjures up completely different emotions in me now than then. I remember the cracked pavement, the tall monstrous door, the echoing hallways of that first day. I remember the cold tile floor. I remember the tidy displays of fake flowers. In a way, the people there were just like the floral displays. They were arranged in set places, greeting you with warm welcomes, but underneath I thought they were fake, doing nothing more than collecting dust. I remember the polished wood trimming and almost too symmetrical rows of chairs. I remember the “perfectness” of it all. The too shiny hand rails, faces. The over organization of the decor, conversation. I remember the white washed walls.

Everything was just like all the other churches before. And I was sure that just like every other time, the white walls would turn gray. The tall ceilings would collapse, crushing me, forcing me to leave. The polished wood would rot. Shiny hand rails would turn rough. And those smiling faces would be frowning. Frowning at me, at what I stood for, at what I believed. Those warm greetings would turn to cold stares. Instead of having open conversations, I would become an object of closed gossip. And then I would leave yet another one of God’s houses. I would cynically laugh at “Loving God, loving people” slogans and at “all are welcome” policies because I knew the lie behind them. There was no stopping this. The smiles would leave. The walls could never stay white.

White walls. Sometimes, sometimes, I would wish that the flowers were real. That they really grew, withered – required nourishment, warmth, light – just like me. I wished that their colors were genuine, reflecting what was truly on the inside and not sprayed on in unnatural hues. I would wish that they would bend instead of staying stiff. I would wish they would bend. Oh, why wouldn’t they? Real flowers follow the light whereever it goes. Only then can they truly thrive, but fake ones remain stationary, sure of themselves and their substance. But in reality those fake ones are dead. They can’t grow or change. They can’t love.

I wished that others didn’t see how black my wall was next to their white one. Their white? No, their white side. Every wall has two sides: the side people see – the side that each wall paints over every time there is a single blemish – and the hidden side, the true part. The part that does not lie. Why didn’t they show their black side, the side full of rust, hollows, cobwebs? The side full of drips and leaks and unwanted waste. Were they blinded by their shiny white walls? Could they really not see what they were hiding? No, they couldn’t. The doors to the other side were locked, bolted shut. The handles taken off. No light was let in. Nothing was open. Oh, how I wished they would open.

But I had wished my last wish. I wouldn’t dare to hope. There was no way this one church would accept me. I greeted everything with contempt. I looked at smiles and already saw frowns. I heard friendly hellos and heard stern goodbyes. I knew what lay beyond the white walls. I became sure of myself. I became unwilling to follow the light. I became stiff, stationary. I was rotting. I was dead.

I looked at white walls and saw black.

But there was something different about these walls. The doors had no locks. The handles were there, oiled ready to be turned. These walls were far from white, but the black wasn’t concealed. The black was sought out to be repainted but not by the wall, by the light. Light was taken into every corner. Instead of pushing all doors shut, turning off every light that could reach into the darkest parts, the doors were waiting to be opened. Instead of hiding away in their own blackness, these walls threw you a flashlight and said, “Come in! We’ll work through this together.”

These flowers were not fake. They would bend so much and even touch the ground, get dirty, just to obtain a little more light. They would show their true colors, even if they were dull. These flowers collected dust but allowed the rain to wipe it off, and even handed you a watering can to help.

The difference was sincerity. The difference was the the structure of the wall. The difference was the substance of the flower. These knew they were wrong, but wanted help to change that wrong. That was the difference. That was what mattered.

When I go to my church now, I feel warm, happy, and even excited. I’m excited to see what the future holds. I’m excited to explore my faith. I’m excited to help others with theirs. But most of all, I’m so thankful that I wasn’t so hardened. I’m so thankful I gave – no, I’m so thankful this place gave me a chance to accept them. Now, I can look at white walls and truly see white.