Will I Ever Love a Church Again?
learning to open up, even if you might get hurt again.
We pushed our way through the church doors and walked toward our car, silent tears threatening. I glanced back at the building where we had worshipped alongside so many people I loved. I knew we wouldn’t be back. I knew that in leaving that church behind, I would also lose some of the deepest friendships of my life.
I was angry. I didn’t want to leave. My husband and I loved our church and it felt like it had been been swiped from our palms. We had been trampled on and pushed out, knowing full well that the full story would never be told.
We drove through the winding parking lot as I wondered, Will I ever love a church again?
Not a single portion of me could fathom the thought. It felt impossible to love a church as I had loved the church we had to leave. I couldn’t imagine coming to Sunday service and seeing familiar smiles of fellow believers whose lives I knew. It took a decade to reach that kind of familiarity.
Other questions floated in my mind: After all we’d endured, could I ever allow myself to open my heart enough to let people in again? Could I reclaim that vulnerability that once came so naturally to me after it had been used as a weapon pointed at my own heart? Could God rebuild my faith in his Bride and redeem what had been lost?
//
My two year old son sat nervously in my lap in the nursery of another church we were visiting. I was nearing my due date and my round belly proved it to the whole world. Sundays had become a day of grieving. Grieving over the words that were spoken over me like a banner, over how hard it was to do the right thing and still feel lost. That morning, my hormonal self could no longer hold it in. The tears dripped rapidly from my eyes to my swollen belly. There was no hiding them, no pretending I was okay.
I had lost count of the churches we visited. None of them were bad churches. But I just never felt settled. I hate to go off of feelings but none of them sat right with me. I felt defective. I knew these churches were doctrinally sound. The people were kind and inviting. Why was this so hard? Was I just too damaged to allow myself to settle? I couldn’t stop comparing each church to what we lost (the good parts anyway). It had been almost a year of visiting churches and we were tired. I guess the answer to my question was no. No, I don’t think I can love another church.
//
Gripping the steering wheel with sweaty palms, I glanced at the exit sign. If I just get off at this exit I can turn around and go back home. The fear-induced temptation pressed on my chest. My stomach was fluttering and churning with nervousness. Was God telling me this Bible study was a bad idea? Or was it anxiety whispering lies?
“If you go, you’ll get hurt again.”
”You don’t know anyone. You’ll feel so awkward.”
”You’re still too much of a mess; you need to be less emotional before taking this step.”
”What if you cry? You know they’ll judge you and think you’re immature in the faith.”
Yes, but what if I heal? I thought.
I was so conflicted even I didn’t know what I would do when I made it to the exit. In the end, I kept driving. I drove 50 minutes away to a house where a big group of women I didn’t know gathered to study God’s Word. It felt crazy. What was I thinking driving so far?
We had been going to that church for a little under a year and it was more comfortable to keep to ourselves. But I knew more comfortable wasn’t God’s best for us. So we joined a small group and I joined a Bible study. Eventually, we joined the church with trepidation. Slowly, strangers became acquaintances and acquaintances turned into friends. Maybe I could love a church again.
//
That Bible study I was so terrified of? It has been a balm. God has done a work in my heart through both the teaching and the fellowship there. On the Monday nights we meet, I look around and see women with stories—stories I’m beginning to learn. I see women who have called me on wearisome parenting days and showed me I’m not alone. I see women who have prayed for me and checked on me. Women who’ve partnered with me to disciple others. And women who have loved on my babies in kid’s ministry.
Every Sunday, I see pastors who faithfully preach the Word and deacons who serve the body with selflessness. I’ve watched men and women surround hurting couples and care for those who are grieving.
Is it a perfect church? Of course not. I’ve learned there is no such thing. But do I love this church? Absolutely, I do.
I truly didn’t know if I could let myself love a church again. And to be honest, it is scary. The what ifs abound sometimes. It seems sin finds a way to scorch everything that is sacred. But I have learned that God will always sustain my faith through it all. So I press in. I open up. I fight to believe the best until proven otherwise. I fight to trust, not in my fellow human, or a set of leaders, or a church body, but in God. And I allow myself to love a church again.
PREORDER Lost Gifts: Miscarriage, Grief, and the God of all Comfort here.
ICYMI
I Still Wonder Who You Are
I Just Don’t Get Why She’s So Sad
8 Things Church Leaders Can Do to Help Couples Grieving a Miscarriage
The “Curse” of the Pregnancy Test
Forces I Cannot Touch
Hello, I Want Your Life
"Yes, but what if I heal?"
So good.
Thank you for this hope- filled writing. How glorious that your bitterness did not hold you hostage!