churches, changes, and chances

It is bittersweet to watch our oldest leave before us on Sunday mornings. Now that he can drive, he has returned to our former church. He’s sitting in the same row, and a friend texted me to say he’s already jumped back in to help with things like communion. I am thankful he feels at home there, but being at a different church without him is weird. For the last two weeks, at the church we have been attending since Easter, a person has asked where our other son is. It is nice that they noticed, I think, because when you are new somewhere you sometimes leave wondering if it even matters that you show up. I know in my head that it matters, but we are still figuring out how to fit in and see if this new place of worship will be home for us. I wonder how much of my hesitation to settle in is because of my lifelong tendency to overthink combined with caution from recent events combined with my love of theology and a checklist of what I think a church must have? 

I’m a church-person, that’s all I can confirm right now. The local church is a gift, even with all of her imperfections. A good church will love you and your kids. They will organize the meal train. They will pray over the surgeries, the bad news, the hard decisions, and the promising job opportunities. They will take your teen camping, and they will show up to eat dinner and play games, even when you no longer spend Sunday mornings together. They will point you to Jesus even when it is uncomfortable, and they will speak His word over you when you most need it. And they will do this in love. In this church-search of ours, I am trying not to compare too much. My prayer is that what starts out as me wanting to be discerning does not morph into me being critical of the new OR the old. Starting over isn't easy. 

This week, during the greeting time, our youngest cried. It wasn’t loud or long, but it broke my heart, once I could decipher what he was saying through tears. Even though every Sunday for the past two months he has said, “I like this place,” this Sunday he let us know he wanted to go back where his brother had returned. As we left, he told us, “I like this place!” but my heartstrings remained in knots. Yet even if we drove a few minutes more down the road to the place where we once belonged, I know it would not be the same; it would not fix everything that still feels broken or empty. This year has changed me, and it has changed others, too. I can only pray that we are changing in ways that make us more like Christ. 

In a song about marriage, Sara Groves sings, “Love wash over a multitude of things."  I think this type of living is necessary not only among husbands and wives but also mandatory for brothers and sisters in Christ, myself included. I have my list of frustrations, grievances, and sadness that I am slowly releasing. I also have my list of gratitude. My eyes now can see that the thankfulness overshadows the disappointments. My heart is still full of love for the people who made up nearly a decade of my story, some who are still in my life, though with a lot more intentionality now. The changes that have taken place still make me sad but I am no longer filled with dread or even regret. I am feeling brave enough to hope that there are also new people to love if I will take the chance.