TO EASE MY feelings of humiliation, I chose to treat this semester off as a sabbatical. If I was going to be the best Christian me, I needed to belong to a church congregation where I would have a temporary pastor. I became an adjunct member of Calvary Church of Jesus Christ in Baltimore, the church I first visited with Dee Dee in December 1979 at Bishop Wilson’s recommendation. Having no transportation to D.C., he believed Bishop Byron’s church, which was not a member of the New Born Church Organization, would be suitable for Christian fellowship whenever I visited Baltimore.

Our neighbor Mrs. Dixon drove me to Tuesday night prayer service in late January. I was glad to be in a church that had corporate prayer, a service where everyone in the congregation spends an hour kneeling in prayer.

I met with Bishop Byron and talked to him about my recent psychiatric commitment. He connected me to a sister in the assembly who worked in a psychiatric institution. She encouraged me to call her as needed. I was thankful for her insightful listening. During this sabbatical, these were the only people at United to whom I revealed my commitment at Connecticut Valley Hospital.

This congregation was an outgrowth of Church of the Lord Jesus Christ. I noted the doctrinal teachings of this congregation, comparing them to New Born in Connecticut. Saints were encouraged to develop faith in God, to pray and to fast at both congregations. In Baltimore, the sisters were prohibited from chemically straightening their hair, as mine was; their skirts were required to fall below the calf, while mine were over the knee. The colors orange and red were considered too loud for the saints, and red was my favorite color. Sisters wore no jewelry, not even wedding rings. In Connecticut, the sisters wore brooches and class rings. Wedding rings were definitely worn.

Combining Paul’s admonishment that women cover their heads while praying with the scriptures that encourage saints to pray continually, sisters were instructed to wear head coverings constantly. Some of the older women wore turbans or scarves at all times, only removing them to wash their hair. This struck me as extreme and unnecessary.

I asked Bishop Byron about movie and theater attendance; they were taboo here also. These saints were allowed to bowl and roller skate, which were New Born taboos. I remembered what Penny told me about each pastor setting parameters for his congregation. Should I try to comply?

My friend Bill had moved from Connecticut to D.C. after earning his doctorate from Wesleyan in 1979. Having suffered a nervous breakdown pre-salvation, he empathized with me. We spoke by phone several times, and then he visited me at home. As we sat in the park behind my house, with my head covered, I told him about United. The preaching was fine and I loved the hymns we sang, but I could not understand the rationale behind the dress code for sisters.

I asked him, “Bill, the Bible says if the Son makes you free, you’ll be free indeed. Why do I feel so bound?”

We discussed my question, then he suggested, “Maybe this isn’t the right church for you.” Maybe it wasn’t, but I’d be leaving in August. At that point in early spring, I lacked the energy it would take to find a church.

I went to the outpatient psychiatry department at Sinai where I met with a therapist for a couple of months. We discussed how I felt about my confinement at Connecticut Valley Hospital and whether or not I felt the mania would recur. I did not.

I got a temp job at Johns Hopkins University. I started as a file clerk in the payroll department, then transferred to the accounts payable department to microfilm the university’s paid bills and research bill payment histories saved to microfilm and microfiche. It was as exciting as it sounds. I welcomed the monotony.

On Sundays, I went to morning service, came home for dinner, and returned for evening service by bus. My sister Ernestine often accompanied me, like a family bodyguard. One Sunday in early March, I suggested we turn around and go back home rather than walk to the bus. Feeling overwhelmed, I thought, This isn’t working. It might be time for me to give up on salvation. If I went home at that moment, I would have abandoned the Apostolic faith. As if she could read my thoughts, my sister declared, “You’ll feel better if you go to the service.” Knowing she was right, we continued on to the bus stop.

I enjoyed fellowship with the saints at Calvary for the next several months, without anyone uncovering my hidden mental instability. I made a couple of friends who provided the human connection I needed within the congregation. I was unwilling to face the undeniable stigma associated with my illness. During my Baltimore tenure, I endured preachers insisting that born-again believers did not suffer mental illness. They reasoned that mental illness was a sign of demonic possession, sighting the demoniac of Gadara who dwelled naked in the tombs cutting himself, possessed by devils before Jesus healed him. In their vernacular, “the demon of mental illness could never affect a blood-washed saint. Fasting and prayer would drive any demon far from you.” Fortunately, I had learned at New Born that a demonic spirit trying to repress me could never possess me as a possessor of God’s spirit.

Was this the atmosphere in which I could discuss having a chemically imbalanced brain?

One Tuesday night at prayer service, I knelt for a conversation with God. In my head, I prayed: Lord, if what happened to me in December is ever going to happen to me again, please kill me before it does. This was the closest I came to suicidal ideation.

Thank you, School Sisters of Notre Dame.