We walked down the back alley to the church balancing a topped-off bowl of cucumber salad, our bag of paper goods, our Bibles wedged between paper plates, and an unruly stack of napkins. Heat blistered up from the street and radiated down from a cloudless sky. As we passed the pink trailer parked in a neighbor’s back yard, I remembered how pretty it had looked back in February, when it seemed to be the only bright spot of color in a world that defaulted to gray.
So much can happen in a year.
Given just a bit of perspective — the snow melting into spring, the tiny buds leafing straight up into a hot summer sky — the old pain wrapped in triumph is enough to catch our breath.
This alley owns a portion of my heart now. It’s a strange extension of our home, its lines and dips now grafted into my long-term memory. It’s part of what I’ll grab years from now when I want to remember this particular life season, with young kids who aren’t too young, our long days and short years, and the brick building at the end of the alley where God patiently waited for us, near us, with us, as we wrestled against His goodness arriving, at times, in the most inconvenient ways.
Six years ago I wondered if church really mattered, “showing up doesn’t make someone a Christian,” and all of that. I asked Abba the hard questions, awaiting vindication, very sure He’d let me clean off the hook. He looked me square in the eyes and with so much kindness, began to answer. He still hasn’t stopped to take a breath.
God is showing me the family He has provided for me on Sunday mornings, Monday evenings, and the lucky Friday night. He’s showing me the profound honor of growing roots into the same rocky soil as people I might not always feel particularly inclined toward. He’s steering me toward brothers and sisters who refuse to turn away from my shadowy heart. He’s sending me people willing to endure my incessant rabbit trails along with my endless questions and hypotheticals.
God is refining me through the ministry of easy laughter, frustrating meetings, and haphazard potlucks.
We get it so wrong, but He keeps showing up for us, often disguised as each other. He reveals himself, quite improbably, through humans who struggle to get along, who have different opinions, who need a break and want an out. He delivers first-aid through His wild, unruly love wrapped in the human flesh of maxed-out misfits.
I know this because on our walk back up the alley after Bible study, my seven-year old wrecked his bike and I got to be the one who washed his cuts and wrapped them in bandages. I, the one who had spent a solid hour earlier the same day grieving my unrecognized entitlement; I, the one who sometimes speaks sarcastically to my children; I, the one who so easily slips beneath the easy weight of martyrdom; I got to tend his wounds. I got to bear a tiny bit of his pain, never mind my shaky qualifications for being worthy of the job.
This “mommy” moment is but a tiny pixel in the frame of why a community of saints matters.
This is church.
It’s you. And me. Bearing burdens, celebrating victories, and trading recipes when a certain lemon-berry dessert demands to be shared.
You might be a padded chair sort of person and I might lean a bit “Jonathan Edwards” in my proclivity for a solid walnut pew. Maybe you meet in a school or your church happens every Tuesday at ten. It doesn’t matter one lick.
What God wants for us when it comes to community is that when we wreck our bike, there’s someone not far behind who will drop what they’re holding and sprint to us. What He intends is an earthly family made up of ordinary kids who, empowered only by their Dad’s love, will scoop us up when we’re hurting, walk our bike down the back alley when we can’t ride, kiss our sweaty cheeks, and carry us home.
Leave a CommentShare each other’s burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ. {Galatians 6:2}