I’m honored to be over at SheLoves Magazine today, sharing about the grace offered us at a church we were just passing through.
Join me? Here’s how it starts:
We went to the church in the city that spring, and it was a shaky step of faith.
We were newly planted in a house 20 miles away in the suburbs; I was half-a-year into therapy. In many ways, we were still tentatively rebuilding our marriage and our faith, one cautious bit at a time.
The churches we’d attended in the past couple of years were not entirely at fault for the way things broke down for me—for us. In truth, it was a mix of undiagnosed depression and anger. It was twenty years of faith-baggage all at once bubbling up and breaking across the surface of my life.
But I blamed the churches anyway. After all, we’d walked through their halls and their foyers, joined their groups, sat in their classes. When that didn’t work, we threw ourselves into a house church with hope and desperation, bringing hotdish to share, sitting in a circle to pray, pitching in to help run the crepe stand at the fair.
I’d done all the things that you’re “supposed to do”. I’d “plugged in” the best I knew how to, and still I felt desperately alone in my struggle. I went to every early-morning coffee-shop Bible study, and never once did someone look into my eyes and say, “How are you doing? Really.” Never once did anyone see me. [Continue reading here]