I Didn't Want to Go to Church Today

As a Christian, I'm supposed to be excited to go to church, right? But when my alarm rudely awakened me this morning, that's the last thing I wanted to do. Exhausted from confusing and conflicting emotions, all I wanted to do was turn off the alarm and go back to sleep.

I had thought I was doing pretty well handling the loss of our first baby (due to miscarriage, a few weeks ago). But on Friday I told someone new about it, and she responded with a kindness and compassion that brought my tears to the surface again.

I had thought I was done crying, at least for now. Sure, I expected grief to hit again when the dates of our planned ultrasounds passed and when my due date arrived. But I didn't realize I had more grieving to do now. I've focused on work and on others and actually felt joy--much more than expected--these past two weeks.

Yet my friend's kind look and understanding words, "That's a huge loss," resonated with me. Yes, it is a huge loss. Thank you, my friend, for acknowledging that. You (and others) have given me permission to feel that loss and face emotions I didn't realize still existed beneath my "doing fine" exterior.

This morning I eventually got up and got ready, and we went to church. We ended up sitting in front of several friends, and I wanted to be OK. But I felt too weak to stand, so I sat. Felt too spent to sing, so I just listened. Pretty soon tears rolled down my cheeks, which embarrassed me.

The way I felt took me back to high school, when my family attended a church more than an hour from home. Since we'd changed churches and I no longer saw most of my friends, my loneliness and depression ran pretty deep. I'd sit there every Sunday morning, feeling like I didn't belong in that place full of smiling people who seemed to have everything together. I knew the darkness of my heart and wondered, What would God want with me?

This morning, the worship leader spoke right to where I was. "God wants our authenticity," he said. "God doesn't want us to just go through the motions, but to come to Him from wherever we are and with whatever we're going through." The leader went back to singing a song with lyrics something like, "With everything I have, I worship You (God)."

At first, I thought I couldn't sing those words. I have nothing to offer You right now, Lord. All I have are these tears and brokenness.

But then I realized that coming to Him with tears and brokenness was enough. "A bruised reed He will not break," (Isaiah 42:3), "and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out."

Sometimes our world gives up on those who are struggling. If someone can't hold it together enough to meet requirements at work, they get fired. If someone shows grief past the time when we expect them to be over it, we back away because we don't know how to respond.

But God is big enough to handle how we're doing--good or bad, angry or accepting, brave or weary--at any time. We don't have to wipe away our tears or square our shoulders or put on a brave front before we go to Him. In fact, He wants us to come to Him "as a little child." And little children don't usually pretend. If they're hurt or upset, they run crying to Mommy or Daddy (as long as they feel safe to do so).

I'm convinced that God wants us to feel safe to run to Him as a little child--with our tears, our anger, our "it's not fair" or "______ is being mean to me." Sure, we might need an attitude adjustment. We might need a nap. We might need to see things from a different perspective. But first we need open arms, a warm hug and an understanding smile from the one who knows us best and loves us most. That's what our heavenly Father stands ready to offer us, and that's why I'm running to Him.

Yes, I sat through church this morning. I didn't sing a word. And I cried more than I have in two weeks. Yes, I went through nearly a dozen tissues and wiped off all my makeup. I looked like a mess, and I felt like one, too.

In fact, I felt far too conspicuous to keep crying in front of people, so I slipped out to the ladies' room and wept in a cold stall for awhile. When I returned to the service, I stood at the back and then sat on the floor. I barely heard a word of the sermon. I know people who saw me must have wondered what was wrong, and I don't know what they thought of my actions. Most of them had no idea what we've been going through, so they probably didn't understand. But God did, and that's enough.

I'm also thankful for a kind pregnant friend who reached out to give me a hug as I stood at the back. She didn't say anything--just gave me a hug--and that was perfect. Another friend asked if I wanted someone to sit with me or needed to be alone. How thoughtful of her! And a third friend sat and talked with me after the service. Others treated me normally afterward, which also meant a lot.

I didn't want to go to church this morning, but I'm glad I did. Not because the people there are perfect (one pastor said a few cheesy things that ticked me off). But because God met me there, where I was, and invited me to spend more time with Him this afternoon. And because a few friends (both long-time ones and fairly new ones) reached out and showed me they care.

I've got a long way to go in this grieving process, and I'm thankful for those who are willing to walk this journey with me. So many have extended kindness and compassion, whether or not they share the same beliefs in God. My heartfelt thanks to each of you.

And to each one who has been through a loss of your own (of spouse, child, parent, other relative or friend) . . . you have my sympathies. Truly, you do.