The truth is, I am a little bit of a mess right now.
I tossed in my bed last night and cried for all of it. All the hard, sad, broken, messed-upness of life.
Morning came too soon. My seven year old was grumpy. I was impatient. For a fleeting moment, I considered hunkering down under a giant fleece blanket and calling it a day.
Instead I bundled up my grumpy daughter and my impatient self and drove the both of us to church. And this is why.
Because this morning six grown-ups stopped, looked into my daughter’s eyes, spoke gently and affirmed her as a valuable member of our faith community.
Because when I tried to sing, “It is well, it is well, through the storm, I am held,” no words would come. Only tears. And so I sat there and cried right in front of God and everybody. And both the words that wouldn’t come and the tears that did were true.
Because listening to a roomful of people talk to Jesus all at once is pretty much what I think heaven will be like. And all of those voices help me keep running (even when I am so very, very tired) because I know that the great cloud of witnesses is not just there, but here. In this very room.
Because whether I like the songs, whether a particular sermon “speaks” to me, whether ministries are designed to meet my specific needs, whether we talk too much about money, whether worship calisthenics or high-fiving or panel discussions are my cup of tea, none of these matter so much.
Because I know, really-honestly-know in the very deepest part of who I am, that even when I am a little bit of a mess, church is as good a place for me to be as any.