Honestly, Sandie

The Frame –

Creative inspiration: So Long, London by Taylor Swift.
I have listened to this song at least a hundred times since leaving. Certain lines parallel the story so strangely it still catches me off guard. Somewhere along the way it stopped sounding sad and started sounding steady, like a reminder that grief and strength sometimes arrive holding hands. Also – it is a banger! While it sings like a love song.. My mind goes to the love you have with the place.. the church and the idea of all it held for me.

Recently an ad for the church I used to live at slid into the frame of my cell phone while I was standing in my kitchen half paying attention to dinner, when suddenly there it was. Familiar stage. Familiar lighting. Familiar faces. The algorithm serving up an old life like I had forgotten it existed. Which feels ridiculous to admit out loud.

I almost scrolled past.

Almost.

Leaving does not erase curiosity. Sometimes you still peek through the window. Slow down outside the old house. Wonder whether anything changed or if the porch light still flickers exactly the same way.

So I clicked.

The service had already started. I recognized the cadence immediately, that polished church softness where everything sounds warm and important at the same time. Voices shaped carefully enough to sound wise but approachable. Familiar enough that my body recognized it before my brain caught up.

Then I heard it.

The pastor started talking about the kind of family they hoped their kids would become someday. A family who served faithfully, stayed involved with youth, showed up consistently, came with joy, modeled the life. The full package.

The camera shifted to a couple sitting on stage.

And something inside me got very still.

Because I knew this story “before” the lighting got good. Before what they had was something worth setting in a frame.

Years earlier, when I was still new and trying to figure out where I fit, she pulled me into leadership beside her. I had barely been there a year. I still felt uncertain, still figuring out the strange social choreography of church, still learning how belonging worked in a room where everybody smiled but nobody explained the rules. She invited me in anyway.

That mattered.

The years after that layered themselves quickly. Retreat planning spread across folding tables covered in papers and too many cups of coffee. Conferences. Moms groups. Long drives. Conversations that started practical and somehow ended with marriage, disappointment, exhaustion, loneliness, kids, faith, insecurity, money, resentment, hope. I held babies. Packed cars. Sat through long nights helping carry the stories people hand you when life starts splitting at the seams.

Friendship sneaks up on you through ordinary things.

You stop introducing yourself. You stop editing your stories. You assume safety.

I knew the ache because they trusted me with it.

Publicly, it sounded cleaner. A move. A fresh start.

Privately, the story had sharper edges.

Nothing they did felt like enough.

They had been there longer than us. Served longer than us. Stayed loyal longer than us. Yet somehow watched newer people move into rooms they had spent years trying to earn entry to. Leadership trust. Recognition. More visibility. The quiet invitations. More trust. More visibility. The rooms everybody notices without ever naming.

Nobody says these things plainly. Not in church.

The wanting arrives disguised as humility. In late conversations. Long drives. Sentences softened enough to sound spiritual.

You start hearing the same ache underneath everything:

Does any of this matter to the people who matter here?

The disappointment came dressed politely.
Quiet sentences. Careful jokes. Long sighs after meetings.

I knew those conversations.

Protected them.

Held them carefully.

Which is partly why years later, sitting in an office being confronted with accusations that sounded nothing like us, something felt off immediately. Apparently we were upset over positions. Recognition. Pay. A strange version of events so disconnected from reality that confusion hit before anger did.

If you want the full bizarre office moment, complete with desk chairs, vague accusations, suspicious phone tapping, and the kind of confusion that makes you question whether everyone else got a different meeting agenda than you, go read “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.”

At the time, I could not make sense of it. I just knew something felt slippery.

A friend of yours, they said.

Who?

No answer.

An awkward performance of transparency followed instead. A phone pulled out. Buttons tapped. A near-call that somehow never happened.

Then one conversation years later rearranged everything.

I was talking through church grief with the same friend who had trusted me with all those private disappointments when suddenly the timelines lined up. Casual details clicked into place. Her husband had gone to leadership after overhearing concerns and frustrations. I do not think it came from cruelty. That would almost make more sense. I think it came from loyalty. Concern. The strange church instinct that teaches people proximity to leadership matters more than the messiness of asking another question first. A misunderstanding carried upward and translated into a story that eventually landed in our lap as fact.

I remember sitting there thinking:

Oh.

It was him.

The realization arrived quietly.

Nobody tells you the strange part about leadership.
The closer you get, the harder it becomes to pretend you cannot see.

Eventually, things look different up close. You stop seeing certainty. You start seeing systems. You notice who gets invited into rooms. Who gets forgiven. Whose rough edges become testimony and whose become liability.

You cannot unknow what you have seen.

You cannot unexpose yourself.

Then came the replay.

Four chairs arranged neatly on a Sunday stage. The pastor and his wife sitting across from the couple while stories landed softly between practiced laughter and familiar pauses. The room warm. The lights flattering. Their family held up as the example.

And suddenly there it was.

The thing they had quietly wanted all along.

They were centered now.

Seen.

Trusted.

Held inside the picture.

I do not mean that cruelly.

I mean it tenderly.

I remember disappointment spoken softly enough to sound humble. The exhaustion of trying. The wondering if anybody important noticed. The ache of standing close to something you love while feeling strangely unseen inside it.

Now here they sat, centered perfectly inside the frame.

I watched her face while everyone laughed. Composed. Measured. Careful. The slow blink. The softness. The kind of poise church women learn somewhere along the way, where wisdom arrives polished and gentle and impossible to argue with.

Then the thought came so quietly it almost surprised me.

Oh.

I see the picture now.

Funny thing about photographers. Eventually, we stop looking at the smile. We notice the lighting.

But clarity does not make goodbye easier.

That is the part I still wrestle with.

Because leaving was not simple. These were real people. Real memories. Real love in many ways. Real friendship. Real years.

Which is probably why So Long, London still steadies me. Why I have listened to it more times than I can count since leaving. Some days it feels like grief. Some days it feels like proof I survived. Most days it sounds like a reminder:

just because you finally understand the story does not mean you stop mourning the version of yourself who stayed in it.