To set the scene. The year is 1999. I am sitting uncomfortably close to our massive box of a TV. It is Saturday morning, I am in my most favorite green flower t-shirt, orange juice in hand, sitting in my bean bag chair rocking the very popular “toddler who doesn’t wear pants because why would you ever?” addition.


The Saturday movie of choice, The NEW Toy Story 2.


My eyes are glued to the TV as I take in Andy's familiar room. But in this particular situation, the room is filled with chaos. Woody has just been placed on the top shelf, due to his arm literally dangling by a thread. I, Ally, age 3, am shocked and devastated. How dare Andy’s mom put him up there while he is already ready to go to Cowboy Camp? Like, just put some duct tape on it or super glue or something!


But there he stays on the dusty old shelf with Wheezy the penguin, as the screen fades to black.


The scene then changes to Andy returning from Cowboy Camp, retrieving Woody from the shelf with a proud, “Hey, Woody! Did you miss me?!” And then, the sudden recognition of Woody's still very torn arm sets in with Andy. And in the most solemn tone ever, Andy continues,


“Oh, I forgot, you’re broken. I don’t want to play with you anymore”.


And with that, Woody is dropped. He busts through the playing cards on the floor, falls into darkness, and violently landing into a metal trash can. Three-year-old Ally is mortified. Her eyes are glued to the TV. Like so close I can feel the static electricity (90s-early 2000s kids, you know what I mean). But just when you think we are done, “there is still poison in the waterhole.”


Woody not only landed in the trash can but is now lying on thousands of broken toy arms. And they begin pulling him under while Andy silently whispers, “Byeeee Woodyyy” as he closes the trash can lid.

Woody then wakes up frantically, realizing it’s just a dream. The scene concludes, and the crying of three-year-old Ally starts at a slow roar.


*and if you know me well, the tears haven’t really stopped since lol*


Within the last six years, losing my faith has felt like  Woody in the metal trash can. More than that, the whole movie scene captures my experience—over the years, as I’ve reluctantly dragged myself through this. I, myself am Woody in this story. And quite frankly, there has been a snake in my boot for the entirety of the journey.


My past relationship to my Christian faith, and what I knew as my connection to the person of Jesus was similar to that of Andy & Woody. They have been together ever since Andy was small and Woody was a new toy. They grew a cherished, fun-filled relationship and played together every day. Andy was tucked in bed at night with the assurance that Woody was there next to him. Woody was the main character of Andy's playtime, and he could always count on him to save the day.  This was my childlike faith story. It was God and I against the world.


But then came the “tear,” and life as and I knew it was changed. My relationship to faith wasn’t the same as it was before. It actually was almost completely disintegrated like the threads holding together a seam. My torn heart was placed on a shelf to look down at the life she used to live longing for something to cling onto, to be the same as I was before, to have sustainability and belief. But all I got was dust and dander.


The dream Woody has next while laying on the shelf may not have been real life, but damn I'm sure it felt that way for that old cowboy. (and for this 29-year-old cowgirl.)


Being held in the hands of a faith you feel like you trust, a God you feel like you know and an identity you built around the right way to live can feel really comforting. Until you slowly realize the very noticeable tear in the seams of what you thought was the truth. And so begins the gradual unraveling.


You’re suddenly a plastic toy, being dropped by someone (or something) you once knew and loved—the thing that once sustained you. Then you fall among the cards, descending through darkness to land on a broken pile of toys. You look up—not to see Andy, but to see yourself. In this moment, you are both the toy falling away from comfort and love, and also Andy—the person from my past, letting go of what was cherished and comfortable. And as the scene fades to black, the lid is closed in farewell, fading into the distance.


But just when you think your being suffocated, the lid slides back just a tiny smidge. The light shines in so faintly, it doesn’t even feel like it’s real. And the loss of hope seems to not have vanished, but has turned into something new.


My Holy Smokes Sisters (maybe some misters), some of you may have never been to such a place in your connection to faith, where it feels like the bottom fell out of your Church's industrial mini van. But maybe there are some of you at the start of your slow tearing at the seams. The seams of a faith that no longer serves you. You may be falling in the dark, and you may even feel like you're being pulled down by the weight of loss of self and identity. If this is your journey or if it’s not, I’ll hitch up my horse and “ride like wind bullseye” right alongside you. We can close the lid together.


In conclusion, and honest confession, I still genuinely have no idea what I believe in anymore when it comes to Jesus and the Christian faith. And honesty continued, I have no idea where I’ll land at the end of it all. But what I do know, is no matter how completely weird and funny it sounds, the lid of my metal trash can is finally open after years of the climb to push it off. And I’m ready to make the hike out to see what awaits me in the uncertainty and unknown. So in an effort to be COMPLETELY cringy, truthful, and super cheddar cheesy, this is my journey to my “faith infinity and beyond.” And if you ready to imbark on yours, let’s all hop on in the Pizza Planet delivery truck and exit on to the road towards healing, one slice at a time.