Yesterday I almost lost my sh*t in front of an auditorium full of college sophomores.

I spoke at a symposium at my undergraduate alma mater (Wheaton College) and it was a rather amazing day in several respects — from the thoughtful programming aimed to inspire sophomores to avoid the traditional slump and explore life options, to the fact that some 100 or so sophomores opted in to this programming on a Saturday, to the honor of being invited to tell the story of my linear then divergent paths, to the pleasure of interfacing with a remarkably thoughtful, smart, and mature group of students who allowed me to (at least temporarily) cast away my fears that all girls end up being the bullies or the bullied.

To take a few (relevant) steps back: Wheaton was where my passion for studying music and psychology bloomed, and as I later progressed through my M.A., Ph.D., and postdoctoral fellowship, the notion that I had evolved into something of an academic poster child for the college was not lost on me. Let’s be frank: I photograph and speak well, was pursuing an interesting interdisciplinary research trajectory, and was an active alum. The stars were aligned.

So when I left academia in 2006, I felt like a black sheep for jumping ship. Part of me fretted that my professors were disappointed in me (I’m one of those people who hates to disappoint…), and part of me was disappointed in myself for not achieving my dream of going back and teaching at Wheaton alongside my mentors. However, while guilt used to be an effective catalyst to propel me into action, more pressing was the fact that I needed to exit my postdoc immediately. It was not the right fit for me creatively, I was emotionally drowning, and I also was in physical harm’s way.

My talk at Wheaton signaled the first time I have been asked back to the college to speak through the lens of my second, non-academic career. And as I reeled off my story and jokes, I realized two things. First, my father was clearly on my mind — I referenced his desire for me to be a lawyer then politician then talk show host (because I’m a talker), as well as his lack of support when I opted against the Ivy League for my Ph.D. (as in, he hung up the phone on me when I told him and didn’t speak to me for a good stretch of time). Second, at Wheaton a remarkably thoughtful and generous collection of mentors were instrumental in helping me rule out various careers (said lawyer and politician) and carve out my path as a music and brain scientist, and many of them were in the room, spending their hard earned Saturday guiding countless students forward in their journeys.

So why did I nearly lose my sh*t in front of a group of kids some 15 or so years my junior? I was at the point in my story where I was talking about my Ph.D. acceptances. This whole phase of my life was very loaded: I was devastated when I didn’t get accepted to Ph.D. programs immediately after undergrad, and I was burnt out after my M.A.; I actually was very close to leaving the field. However, as soon as the acceptances started rolling in I forgot all of the reasons I was planning on leaving the field because someone wanted me. I narrowed my decision to two schools: an Ivy League with a lunatic advisor (I was advised against working with her by graduate students and faculty alike) and a not as well known (at the time to me) Canadian university with a well respected advisor. My father and my M.A. advisor were concerned only with pedigree; they told me to head to the Ivy League and just put my head down and power through it. And they made it very clear that I would be disappointing them (and the lab, the family, the world, etc., if I made a different choice). But something felt wrong to me so I called one of my key mentors in psychology from Wheaton, Derek Price. And it was this moment — during which I recalled Derek and my conversation, and all of the rationalizations my father and M.A. advisor made about going to the Ivy League, and Derek’s urging that I would be crazy to march into certain death; that an advisor dictates your quality of life and that the clear choice was the Canadian university — that I felt the tears well to my eyes, my throat tighten, and my voice start wobbling. I couldn’t even make a joke about being faklempt I was so faklempt.

That phone call not only saved me from several guaranteed years of hell, but it also made clear that to Derek, I was a person, not a commodity. And on Saturday, as I told my story to these sophomores — on the campus where I forged all of the skills that allowed me to leave a decade long career and start a new one successfully — it dawned on me that I wasn’t being “welcomed back” per se, because my family at Wheaton never hung up the phone on me in the first place.

Last night was like many nights. I was up working. The house and neighborhood were still. It was midnight and I was getting ready to shut down for the night.

And then the doorbell rang.

I froze like a deer in the headlights. Midnight calls are never a good thing. Who could it be? I didn’t want to snap off the light and show that I had heard the call and was hiding. I thought, okay, maybe I just imagined it. Who the hell would ring the bell at midnight anyway? The rest of the house was pitch black.

Then the doorbell rang a second time.

My heart started racing. Who could it be? My bizarre ex-boyfriend from a million years ago who still sends me mail? A stranger who actually needed my help (no, it couldn’t be, the bell would ring in a more urgent pattern)? A friend who needed me (no, my phone was on…the people I would open the door for at midnight have my phone number)? A robber or a rapist hoping that someone up at this hour would answer the door thinking it was someone who really needed help?

The doorbell rang a third time.

I still couldn’t get out of my chair. I sat very, very still. A few minutes later I listened to the crunch of snow and ice as the person left. I quietly got out of my chair and listened to the steady breathing of Jon and Laurel from the hallway. I went downstairs to double check that the door was securely locked. I went back upstairs and into Laurel’s room and gently rested my hand on her head. I contemplated sleeping with her because my mama bear radar was all lit up. Then I peeked out her window, grateful for the darkness all around me.

Everything outside was still, wintery, beautiful. Whoever rang the bell had moved on.

It seems pointless to hypothesize about who came to my door at midnight, but I still wish I knew. Would you answer the door at midnight?

I have a confession to make: I can’t pay attention to sermons.

It’s a weird thing with me, similar to my inability to absorb game rules, product manuals, or history lessons. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t process the information.

My inability to read game rules and product manuals is only mildly annoying or inconvenient to others. Being incapable of absorbing history lessons took a toll on my GPA and proves somewhat embarrassing during Trivial Pursuit and Jeopardy but otherwise isn’t a huge deal. But glazing over during sermons? Well, it not only seems disrespectful to the powers that be, but some of those powers (or the powers’ messengers) are related to me.

My mother is a devout Seventh Day Adventist but we rarely went to church because my father didn’t believe in God. However, the couple of times I did attend church as a child, I usually daydreamed then later found myself clueless (and my mother embarrassed) when the pastor asked me questions about the sermon later. And both of my in-laws are ministers (though my mother-in-law is now a social worker). I go to church every other year (Christmas Eve service when we are visiting them) and though I try really, really, reaaaallly hard to pay attention, I instantly glaze over during the sermons, only perking up when it’s time to get up and rock some Christmas carols.

Lately, however, I’ve been thinking that perhaps I need to go to church.

Or something.

As you’ve probably gathered, I’m not particularly wed to the concept of God per se; rather, I believe in the power of the universe; that there’s a spirit of some kind driving the bus, but that spirit doesn’t necessarily identify with a name or gender for me. But quite frankly, my faith has been wobbly of late, as I struggle with some personal matters, and also as I have cried over the suffering of friends like Anissa and Arianne. Not to mention the immense devastation of Haiti; incomprehensible and tragic on so many levels. None of it makes sense to me when I try to assure myself that the universe has a plan.

The other day when I was walking to pick up Laurel at school I passed a church (ironically, the same denomination of my in-laws). The signboard struck me. It said:

LOVE NOT GUILT

Simple words. No verse listing. Just a concept.

And I had a moment. This statement moved me; it’s a concept I can understand and apply to my own life. It’s a motto our world could serve to embrace. And seeing those words in print at a place of worship made me wonder whether it would be possible to find a church or some kind of gathering where spirituality, faith, and community could be explored in less traditional ways.

Because I do think of myself as a spiritually grounded person. Because I feel like I could use the power of community to help me along in these moments when I can’t understand what the hell the universe is up to. Because I think that there’s utility to assembling collectively to set intentions for peace and healing.

But I need something other than traditional sermons and Bible verses.

Tell me, if you’re a church go-er, what do you think my issue is with sermons? Or if you explore spirituality and faith in alternative ways, what do you do?