Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

church

Why I (still) choose the church

Our history isn’t long, me and the church, or maybe it is longer than I think, but officially it is only a decade and a half. Long enough anyway to have ups and downs and trials along the way. My relationship with the church is longer than my marriage, and neither are without their problems.

Every now and then our family skips church for a week, which at one time I would have counted among the worst sins, in favor of family time or visiting friends. It’s usually in the midst of a chaotic schedule. It’s a reset of sorts. A short break. We always go back the next week or the next. Sometimes, if we’re traveling, the weeks add up, but we’ve never gone a month’s worth of missing on Sundays. At least not that I can recall.

Some days I want to, though. I’ve toyed with the idea of walking away from church more than once. When I’m hurt or confused or just plain tired, I wonder why on earth I’m still part of this messy relationship. (I should mention here that I am part of the mess. It’s me AND it’s you, church.) Wouldn’t I be more fulfilled by sleeping and resting on Sundays? Wouldn’t it be easier to go out for breakfast as a family instead of wrangling children out the door and into seats and off to classes for a couple of hours? Wouldn’t I feel better if we just spent the day however we wanted it instead of starting our “rest” after noon?

Maybe.

But here’s why I’m still choosing the church, even when I think I want to walk away.

Stefan Kunze | via unsplash

Stefan Kunze | via unsplash

The church is both a place and a people to me. There is the building we enter most Sunday mornings and there are the people inside other buildings who have played significant roles in our lives. There are people here, in our community, and people on the other side of the world. We are a church together and we meet in groups, inside and outside, here and there.

I keep coming back because the church is the first place I learned that love isn’t limited to the people who share your blood.

[bctt tweet=”The church is the first place I learned that love isn’t limited to the people who share your blood.”]

The church–its people–have loved us well through a lot of hard times. They’ve treated us better than we deserve. They still do. Before there was an “us,” there were church ladies praying for our union. They were teaching me how to cook for a crowd and slice fresh bread, how to laugh at life’s absurdities and how to weather its adversities. In the church I learned how to stretch a food budget before I needed to. I learned to make pizza dough from scratch, though I’m still terrible at it. I felt the effects of prayer and generosity and encouragement. Rarely have I walked into a gathering of the church and not felt loved and welcome. Even before I believed, they accepted me. (I know this is not everyone’s experience. Later this week, I’ll tell you about how much my beliefs have changed.)

I choose the church because sometimes I need a reminder that I’m not the only who is having a rough day. Or week. Or year. I need the communion of saints, the shared sufferings, the united declarations of hope and peace. I need a place where I can safely say, “It’s going to be okay, and even if it’s not, God remains.” I need to see in the flesh those who have struggled and survived. I need the hugs. The words of encouragement. The care and concern.

I keep coming back because when I see my daughter’s name on the prayer list, I know that she is not only being prayed for, but she is a valued member of our group. She is not just our daughter but her own unique self. She is missed when she’s absent. And our son, the rambunctious boy who doesn’t know the meaning of quiet, has a village of people who show him love and grace and patience. In the church, our children are not secondary to us. They are with us and among us. They are part of us. I don’t go to church only for my children but I’m grateful that my children get to know what it’s like to gather together weekly with people who aren’t relatives. For now, they enjoy it, and that is a good thing.

I choose the church because I need to know I’m not alone. When I feel rejected, insecure, like I don’t belong anywhere, the church reminds me that we’re all in the same boat. In the church, we belong to each other (that’s a borrowed phrase from Momastery). We belong with each other. The church, at its root, is a group of misfits. Rich and poor, young and old, from around here, not from around here, raised in the faith, new to the faith, married, single, with kids, without kids. Our humanity is our common denominator and our commitment to show up for each other holds us together.

I keep coming back to the church not because it’s perfect but because it isn’t. Sure, church is difficult sometimes. So is family. So is living with myself. But the good outweighs the bad, and the bottom line is that I need the church.

The church is my place to practice grace. And receive it. To love and be loved. To serve and be served. To grow and be challenged to grow and to help others grow.

I still choose church, even when I think I want to leave it.

When a year leaves me in awe

We huddled on a blanket as fireworks launched over our heads in a burst of color and sound, the literal kind of fireworks that are so prevalent on the Fourth of July, not the figurative kind lest you think me some kind of sappy romantic. (Okay, sometimes I’m guilty.)

fireworks 1

I watched with lips parted, uttering the occasional “oh” and “wow.”

I’ve seen dozens of fireworks displays through the years, some better than others. Maybe it was the absence of our kids or the gathering of friends or something yet unnamed, but this show of sparkle and sound left me in awe.

Moments earlier, a Civil War-era cannon brigade fired 16 times during the 1812 Overture, leaving my heart pounding as I giggled like a teenager and clung to my husband.

It was, all of it, a celebration of freedom and life and even as we sat in traffic waiting to leave the mall parking lot, I was grateful.

For this and so much more.

—

A year ago, we sat on the edges of the group who’d gathered, unsure of ourselves and our place and how we’d fit in. We were moving soon and this would become our family and though we couldn’t stay for the entire picnic, we dropped in to say “hi” and introduce ourselves. Our kids played on the playground and we met new people and we left with hope that this whole moving to a new city thing was going to work out okay.

Later that week, people we hardly knew showed up to our house, driving nearly an hour on a Saturday to sweat and lift and pack up the life of a family they had no blood connection to. They chauffeured our stuff to our new house where Phil and I sat amazed at the amount of work accomplished in so little time.

It took us months to settle in (in truth a year later, we still have unsettled areas) at least where our “stuff” is concerned but our hearts are a different story. They began to settle that day when near-strangers adopted us as family and ushered us in to our new community with grace, love, sweat and sore muscles.

But it was only the beginning.

fireworks 3

—

It’s been one year. One. Year. We’ve spent a whole year of our lives in our new home, our new community, and some days I can hardly believe it’s only been a year. The people who fill our daily lives have deeply embedded themselves in our hearts.

I am always amazed at the people God brings into our lives when we move to a new area, people I can’t imagine having never known. People who love us and our kids. People who challenge our thinking and encourage us in our struggles. People who offer us tangible support and friendship.

I used to let people in only so far, never knowing if we would be sticking around only for a few years. If I didn’t get too attached, it wouldn’t be too hard to leave, I told myself.

But this year has taught me that love with abandon is deep and fulfilling. It’s scary and wild and no guarantee against hurt or disappointment.

It is overwhelming, too.

In one year I have more people I can call “friend” than I did in multiple years when we first moved to Pennsylvania. It is good and yet I am forever falling short in maintaining and investing in these relationships.

Perhaps my goal for the next year will be that.

—

There are years I look back on and wonder how we survived. And I marvel at the work God did to bring us through and how He has changed us.

And then there’s this year of living in Lancaster. Not perfect but altogether good, without any soul-crushing low points.fireworks 2

And I can’t hardly put into words what I feel–how a year can be filled with such goodness, not because we deserve it or have earned it but because it is a gift.

This year, it has been a gift. Better than any wrapped present or expensive purchase. It has been a year to renew our hope, restore our relationships and heal our hurts. And just as those years of trials have changed us, so has a year of goodness.

We are moving toward our best selves, the people God wants to make us. We are healthier in our whole selves, not just getting by but taking tiny steps toward thriving. We are thankful. Less grumbling. Less bitter. More aware that this journey is not about us and the plans we’ve made but about God and the dreams He has for us.

It is not perfect because we are not perfect, but it is good and I will rest in that.

And a year from now, let it be said that we embraced each day knowing that God was at work for good.