The truth of the matter is, I was trying to leave the Orthodox Church. I had converted and moved here eight years ago, been received as a catechumen with my family (I will leave them out of this as much as possible) and baptized on a Lazarus Saturday. Pascha was incredible. And then the mindgames began.

Some of it was political--right-wing voters have a pass at some parishes to say what they think and accuse people with other views of not being Christians. Some of it was 1950s gender roles being forced on the teens via the teen class, in which the recordings of one celebrity priest from Riverside, California were used, with the blessing of the parish priest, which was all anyone needed to mention to shut down any objections raised.

Priestly advice began to get inconsistent. Advice that wasn't working out was merely repeated, as if to a monastic under obedience. Conflicting advice regarding marital matters was given to me and to my wife on consecutive days, so that the next time the issue arose the conflict was unavoidable. I became angry. I told the priest so, and amends were made--no more advice would be given in that area.

The real alarm was raised in my subconscious the day I was sitting outside the parish hall, conversing with the priest. I had left off wearing black when I left the ministerium of a conservative denomination, but we had been receiving into the Church some time earlier and I felt that I was getting past any issues of wanting to be clergy of any sort in the Orthodox Church. I mentioned that I was feeling like I could go back to wearing black occasionally, not with any intention other than that of wearing a color I like.

"No."

And just like that he forbade me to wear a color. I was perplexed. I was unsure. Maybe this was okay.

The next week, on the way to liturgy, I had my first panic attack.

Three years later, I was trying to leave the Orthodox Church. I was only finding Catholic podcasts helpful. I was actively visiting the large-ish parish in the next town over, and trying to reconcile myself to the Novus Ordo, the Filioque, and the congregational singing of hymns. I was only getting started.

Then my son died.

I'm sorry, I can't continue right now. Suffice it to say, I was trying to leave the Orthodox Church. But nothing worked. No matter how I tried to force myself into the mold of the Western Church, no matter how I love the Monastic Diurnal and the Rosary, it just wasn't happening.

This morning I went with my wife and children to the parish they have been attending, Orthodox of another jurisdiction. I had prayed the Prayers of Preparation for Holy Communion, and I partook of the body and blood of Christ.

It was one occasion, one time. But there was no anxiety. There was no political discussion in the parish hall afterwards. I had a quiet cup of coffee with a friend after liturgy, and we discussed Scripture, among other things. It's what I thought Orthodoxy would be like.

Maybe this is a new beginning.