When the Church Is

I find myself glancing up at the tiny screen to the left of the stage less and less often these days. It's been at least a month since someone has had to call us away from the service. Since our son's number has flashed. Since someone has tapped us discreetly on the shoulders or found us in a Sunday school class, an apologetic but nonetheless clear look on his or her face.

We need you to come. We need you to pick him up. The teacher can't handle him.

You understand, right?

And we do. We know. We understand the challenges. We know that what feels like a no-brainer to many families - dropping your four year-old child off at Sunday School - feels like a tremendously risky act to some people. We know what it feels like to be called again. To pick up again. To have to work ourselves up to the point of being willing to try it - again. And we know what it feels like to have to pick your kid up after only 3 minutes in the special needs class because even that isn't working.

Talk about feeling like you are out of options.

But a month ago, our family pastor ran into me when I was alone at church on a Wednesday to co-lead the small group we attend. She caught me on one of THOSE days and innocently inquired as to why she hadn't seen our son recently.

Well.

Because it isn't working. We can't really trust that it will go well. We're taking turns staying home with him because at least our other sons can get there and one of us can go and not live on eggshells that we will be called out of service again. And yes, it is exhausting. And no, it's not sustainable. But it is what it is. And that's what we're doing.

And she looked me in the eye and said "No. It doesn't have to be. We love your son. And we love you. He is my baby. They all are. We are going to do something."

I held back tears and thanked her but moved on with the night. It's easy for a church to promise something. Really, it's easy for any of us to promise something and not follow through. The church has so much to be going on with. And we are only one child, one family struggling among so many.

But friends, listen up. So many of us have wounds. CHURCH wounds. I have them. They sit on my shoulder whispering lies to me all the time. They cause me to shield and to run and to hold back. To offer cynicism rather than teachability. To sit rather than kneel. To fold my arms rather than lift them in surrender. Those wounds want me to leave. To hate the church and the people. To assume the worst. To believe I can find what I need by myself. To be my own church.

Those wounds are real and they are powerful. The wrongs done to many of us in the church - they can be some of the hardest to heal because it makes no sense that we would have received them IN CHURCH. I don't know if I'll ever fully process the ridiculous things said to me in the church during our long struggle with infertility. I don't know if I'll ever forget what it felt like to be told I was lying by an elder of a church because the pastor falsely accused me of something and I chose to defend myself. Church wounds are betrayals because they never line up with who God has called us to be as a family to one another.

And with each new church we find because of how often we have moved, I have to steel myself to take risks. To show up. To hope. To ignore the whispering.

But this time? This is a time where the church has been the church. Has been a family.

Twelve hours after I ran into her, I had an email in my inbox with a plan. GUYS. You know how much this lady loves a plan. And the plan included a plea- for us to let them help us. GUYS. You know how good I am at letting people help.

But I chose to say yes. I said yes for the sake of our whole family. I said yes to shush the whispering demon on my shoulder telling us they didn't really care. We needed to be able to go to church together, friends. We needed that to not be another "divide and conquer" moment for us. We needed it to be a win.

And so we said yes. We showed up that next Sunday. We prepped him and prayed and did everything we could to prepare him for that plan.

And guess what?

It was hard. He wasn't into it that first week. I could hear him losing his ever-loving mind as I walked away from drop-off and had to fight tears of exhaustion for the entire service.

But I knew that they weren't moved. That they weren't judging us. That they had prepared for a tough transition. And so I went to service. And glanced roughly every 7.5 seconds to see if his number was flashing.

It never flashed.

The next week I probably made it a few minutes between each glance.

Then maybe 15 the next time.

And this past week? I'm not sure. But I know I breathed. Maybe for the first time in a long time. Because when I dropped him, he wasn't exactly enthusiastic, but he wasn't upset. And he wasn't waiting by the gate when I came to pick him up. He was smiling and laughing and enjoying the beautiful humans who had spent an hour and a half with him. Who had loved him so well so we could be a family on a Sunday morning.

Friends. The church gets a lot of flack these days. And much of it is deserved. We have not always done right, done good, chosen grace the way we should as those who are stewards of God's community here on earth. We don't always act like family. But this moment, this victory, is huge for us. Huge for me. It's not just a moment to be grateful that my son is loved but it's also a moment to remember that God can heal wounds. Even church wounds. This moment rebuilt some trust for me and that's no small thing.

So right now, I want to place an ebenezer here and say that my church was the church. They loved us in this - loved us like family. They aren't asking for public recognition in response. I'm not filming some artsy video to put on Upworthy.

But I AM saying thanks. Publicly. Not all churches would look at one sweet boy and one struggling family and say "we can change something so you can stay."

Thank you, dear church and beloved pastor. From a tired mama and a boy who is now, finally, looking forward to church again. Thank you.