13/52 :: same kind of different.

"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other -- that man, that woman, that child is my brother or my sister."

- Mother Teresa

--

A few years ago, I told Jordan my idea for a book. "Wouldn't it be interesting," I said, "to spend a year going to different church denominations, highlighting what makes us all different, sure, but also -- and maybe more importantly -- discovering all of our similarities?" 

We were driving down a southern highway, and we had passed at least a dozen churches of varying types and denominations. And sure, a part of me found that -- still finds it, I guess -- disheartening. One church, one body, etc. But the other, bigger part of me wondered if it was okay, if it was just different believers, worshiping the Father, Son, and Spirit in the best ways they knew how.

Fast forward a couple of years. Since moving to Thomasville (and even including the months leading up to the move), Jordan and I have visited dozens of churches. Methodist, Presbyterian, church of Christ, Baptist, non-denominational, Catholic, and yes, Anglican. 

Now, whenever I worship and wherever I worship, I think of all the people we've met in our season of church hopping. I think of the elderly gentleman who served me communion one morning alongside his granddaughter. I think of my favorite priest at St. Peter's, the one who closes his eyes when he sings. I think of the African-American couple who sat behind us at the church of Christ where I grew up, the people who knew me by my grandmother's name better than my own. I think of the women who wore head-coverings and long skirts, the ones who took us out for barbecue. I think of the Methodist church where the praise team was in cowboy boots and jeans, playing the fiddle for "bluegrass Sunday."

There have been kind, friendly faces and quiet, stoic ones. Scripture read from half a dozen translations, prayers recited while kneeling. We've had stale crackers and grape juice, discs of bread and cheap wine. 

And here is what I believe: I've met hundreds of brothers and sisters this way. These are people who believe in the same Jesus I do. The Methodists and the Presbyterians and the Baptists and the churches of Christ (even the ones who wouldn't want to be on this list) are eerily similar; more similar, in fact, than not. Disregard the instruments and the choirs and the robes and the kneeling benches and you're left, more or less, with Christ crucified and raised. He's the point of it all.

Last Sunday, thanks to a birthday party at The Bookshelf and a canoe trip in Tallahassee, my brother and I both found ourselves back at our parents' church, the church we grew up in. (Chet said it was like sitting next to Liz Lemon in church, which is perhaps the best compliment anyone has paid me, ever.) Jordan, too, attended his parents' church of Christ in Birmingham. And you know, it wasn't too hard to go back. The people are lovely; the singing is beautiful. It was a little bit like going home, albeit knowing the whole while you don't really fit anymore. 

But the sermon -- which seemed to highlight and outline this church's beliefs and differences in doctrine -- felt odd to me, unnecessary. How silly, in a world full of complications, abuses, persecutions, and hurts, to separate ourselves from fellow Christians, from those who believe in the same radical resurrection we do. 

Aren't we supposed to stick together? Don't parents tell their children to watch out for each other at school? Don't they send brothers and sisters to stand by each other and honor each other and help each other navigate the chaos? 

Church wasn't designed to be a denominational pep rally. Sundays weren't created for us to celebrate our differences or to join forces against the church down the road. "The battle isn't against flesh and blood." So Scripture says, and thus I believe.

Do you know why, in this season, I love the Anglican church? Yes, there is kneeling and liturgy and a church calendar and short sermons and beautiful communion. But really? It's a relief each Sunday to go somewhere content with its own beliefs without negating another's, a church that teaches Jesus and proclaims Him while also praying for brothers and sisters -- Baptists, Catholics, and everything in between -- all over the world. A church that unabashedly praises His name and acknowledges itself as set apart, all while taking part in the community around it, the community that needs Him most. 

Amen to that.

8/52 :: ash wednesday.

 

"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." I could almost taste the ash as the priest crossed it over my forehead. It trickled down onto my nose, but I didn't feel the urge to laugh.

Church, if done right, is an innately humbling experience; weekly, I'm reminded this life does not revolve around me. I'm reminded the world is big and vast, and the role I play in it is small, albeit noticed by a God who breathed life into me by His mercy. Church regularly reminds me of my smallness, but I have never felt as small as I did on Ash Wednesday. 

We have confounded our families and friends with our decision to attend an Anglican church. This week, I read remarks by Southern Baptist leader Albert Mohler, who in a podcast commented on the recent "conversion" of two Southern Baptist young men to the more liturgical Catholic and Anglican traditions. His words stung.

“As I read this news article, it comes as judgment -- judgment upon all those who missed the opportunity and failed in the responsibility to ground these young boys as they were then in the Christian faith… the differences between the understanding of a Scripture-centered Christianity and one that is centered in the sacraments, as is the Roman Catholic system, and at least much of Anglicanism.” 

Dr. Mohler's words stung because Jordan and I both come from families firmly grounded in faith, families who love Jesus and believe in His redemptive saving grace. Our families' legacies are embedded in us, and those legacies don't go away just because the church we attend on Sunday mornings has a different name on the sign and a giant crucifix hanging in the sanctuary.

I love God because He is big. I have struggled with church because church tends to make Him small. 

Albert Mohler's words struck a chord because I took them personally -- I don't like thinking of my parents or my church as having failed me -- but they also bothered me because they make my giant God seem miniscule. 

One of the things I love about Anglicanism so far is its immense respect and admiration for other Christian denominations. I have not once heard an unkind word uttered from the pulpit or the parishioner about a fellow Christ follower. Instead, I have heard priests laud their Catholic brothers, and the pastors of a nearby Baptist church break bread with the Anglican staff once a month. Weekly, fellow Christian congregations are prayed for, not that they would find truth and "be saved," but that their work would bring honor and glory to Christ's name. 

In a world where Christians are beheaded for their beliefs and innocent children wind up in the bondage of sex slavery, I want to be a part of a faith seeking unity, a faith caught up not in the "he said, she said" arguments of denominational differences, but in the ways we can transform our world and turn it upside down with grace and love. 

Anglicanism is as grounded in Scripture as the church of my childhood. Each week, we read passages from the Old and New Testaments, plus a Psalm and a gospel reading. Dr. Mohler's criticisms -- at least in that particular podcast -- don't hold up. Perhaps even more important than the countless verses I hear read to me every week is the fact I spend almost the entirety of the service on my knees. Inconvenient? Yes. Uncomfortable? Absolutely. Meaningful? You bet. Turns out I can't feel arrogant or strong-willed or stubborn or independent when I am on my knees. My position serves as yet another reminder of my weakness.

This was my first year to engage in an Ash Wednesday service. Jordan had been through the rituals many times previous, but I had not. And I worried a little bit about walking around town with ash on my forehead. I wondered if my Father, who is in secret and sees what is done in secret, would be honored by a public act. 

My doubts mostly washed away in that moment at the altar. There is nothing prideful about remembering you are dust. There is nothing arrogant about walking around with dirt on your forehead.

And so, this Lenten season, I am relishing in my smallness. And every week, at an Anglican church seeped in both Scripture and sacrament, I am reminded of the greatness of my God. For now, for this season, I will continue to spend my Sundays on my knees, praying for, not against, my fellow believers, that the vast world we inhabit might be one day filled with the light of Christ. It's a goal I don't believe we'll reach if we're spending our time belittling one another on podcasts and indulging in our differences. Our sameness makes us His, and it's what has the power to turn our world upside down for the better. 

4/52 :: seeking.

It's those unborn, not-yet-conceived children I worry about. When I wonder why Jordan and I haven't made a decision regarding church, I realize it's because I don't know what I want my children to believe. I don't know if I want to baptize my infants or teach them four-part harmony. I don't know what kind of hymns I want them to sing or if I want them to give up things for Lent or if I want them to call another human being "Father." 

--

When we moved to Thomasville, we decided we were going to find a new church home. And there are all kinds of places on the Internet devoted to discussions about church and what it means for millennials and whether it's important to our generation. I won't debate that here, because to me and to Jordan, it is important. We grew up going to church; we love the act of gathering together with believers, even if it's painful, even if it's inconvenient. 

So we go to church, every Sunday, just like we've done for the past 29 years of our lives. 

Only now, we go to a church where a priest blesses the bread and the wine. We pull out benches and kneel in prayer. We say the Nicene Creed. We sing songs I don't always know, and a choir sings with us. I don't lift my hands in worship or clap to a beat. I bow when a cross comes down the aisle, and I stare at a 10-foot Jesus hanging on a large, wooden cross.

And I am happy. 

But the thing no one really tells you about growing up and making adult decisions is that rarely are they clear-cut. Maybe it's just me, but I see a lot of grey in this life, and a lot of grey in my faith. 

I am happy in this new church setting, but it is not easy. 

For years on this blog, I have avoided talking specifically about my church denomination or faith identification. That's been intentional, because I think we can talk together more safely when labels aren't being brandished about. Often, we're more alike than not, and labels can get in the way of conversation.

So I've avoided mentioning I'm a member of the church of Christ. Not just in label, either. I am third generation church of Christ. I went to a church of Christ college. My brother graduated from a church of Christ seminary program. Jordan's dad is an elder in the church of Christ; his granddad is a church of Christ minister and professor. 

That faith is in our blood, so when I talk about attending an Anglican church, it isn't easy. In fact, it's something we haven't told a lot of people, because in the traditional, more conservative church of Christ, attending a new denomination can be seen as conversion. This isn't a "pick what's best for you" situation; this is a "choose between right and wrong." 

We are choosing, at the moment, something many people in the faith we love and grew up in might believe is wrong.

In my family, we have always talked about faith openly and honestly. Some of my happiest memories are of gathering around the dining room table, discussing tough decisions about church and faith and life. So my parents are well-versed in these discussions. Our current choice to attend an Anglican church is one we've shared with them, and they've asked questions and they've been respectful, and I am grateful. But one night, a few weeks ago, I was talking with my mom on the phone. And we were talking about church, and I think I asked, up-front, what they thought about what we were doing. 

My mom said, "You know, honey, I think we're just a little confused, but we'll be okay."

She didn't mean to, but her answer broke my heart.

To my knowledge, I have never confused my parents. I have been the kid who does right. The kid who makes straight As, who wins awards, who marries the really nice guy. For the most part, the decisions we make, even still, make our parents happy and proud, so to confuse them? It hurts. 

So every Sunday now, I am happy. There are no stomachaches, there are no headaches. Women read Scripture from the pulpit and pour wine into my mouth. I kneel in prayer and go forward for communion and recite a creed I'd only ever heard about. And I love it. The robes and the priests and the pomp and circumstance are foreign to me, but I don't mind it. So I am happy, but I am also sad. Because the songs they sing aren't familiar to me yet. And my parents aren't sitting beside me, and the faces in the crowd still belong to strangers. 

I don't know what to do with all of these feelings yet. Shauna Niequist says “When life is sweet, say thank you and celebrate. And when life is bitter, say thank you and grow.” Each Sunday, then, is an exercise in both celebration and growth, and some days are better -- or worse -- than others. 

The decisions Jordan and I make together as a family are never ones we make lightly. (We are both notorious over-thinkers.) And I wonder if our different sets of parents are both asking: Which one is pulling the reins here? Meaning, do my parents think Jordan is leading me down the path to Anglicanism? Do Jordan's parents think I've pulled him toward liturgy?

The comforting truth about all of this is that we both have questions we're asking, and the answers we're getting are leading us to the Anglican church, individually and together. Jordan's questions are more about church history, and even his closest friend showed absolutely no surprise when Jordan told him where we were going to church. It's not all that surprising, given the questions Jordan has been asking since I've known him.

My questions have to do with culture and women's roles and never quite finding my place in a conservative church of Christ setting. We both know, too: The answers we're reaching might be very different if we were living somewhere else. The church of Christ lives and breathes in autonomy, meaning if we lived in a different town, in a different part of the country, we might very well be able to find a church of Christ that could live comfortably with our questions. But we chose Thomasville, and for now, this is home, and our questions, right now, are being answered in the same place.

Of course, anyone who asks questions knows: The more questions you ask, the more you'll keep asking. 

And so there has been no confirmation for us. We are not members of the Anglican church. We haven't finished asking our questions. 

Instead, we go to church every Sunday. We worship the same Jesus we've always worshiped; we seek comfort in the Father and wisdom from the Spirit, just like we've always done. These are things we believe can be done in somber, quiet acts and in happy, celebratory ones, in tiny, wooden churches of Christ and ornate Anglican cathedrals. The God we serve is so big, we believe He's got all of us wrapped up in His gentle hands.

We are not Anglican. Probably, maybe, we are still members of the church of Christ. But if you're slapping labels on things, maybe you should know: We are simply two kids asking questions, doing our best to please the Father. And we are both hopeful His grace will cover us, because sometimes, that has to be enough. It is my prayer, regardless of the decisions we make, that it will be enough for our children, too.

on life in a small town.

We are lucky. 

It's hard to remember that when the humidity is as thick as sweet tea and our breaths become deep and measured on walks around the neighborhood. We are in the last long, dwindling days of summer, and in the South, the dog days can be excruciating. You, with your west coast breezes and your falling leaves and your sweater-buying? I envy you. 

But last weekend, we walked around our quaint downtown and celebrated the arts. We explored new shops and admired larger-than-life murals. We said hello to friends and frequent customers, to acquaintances and fellow shop owners. 

It was fun, and I'm not sure it would have been possible in a bigger city. 

I tweeted last week that I didn't understand the term "love-hate relationship" until I moved to a small town. 

And I am almost terrified of blogging about these feelings, because the Internet is weird, and I don't know who reads this space anymore. I am afraid that maybe my fellow small town dwellers will read my words and misunderstand my confusion for dislike, so let me quickly clarify: We are enjoying small town living. It is fun and goofy and different and weird. Kind of like us, honestly.

The characters we meet are worthy of classic literature. Our house is within the downtown limits, and we can hear the football games and the high school marching band from our front porch. That is good, good stuff. 

We're fortunate, too, because our Southern small town is growing and thriving, not dying. That arts festival? It couldn't happen just anywhere. Next month, there will be a book festival and a film festival. The following month, a celebration of plantation wildlife. Our town is unique and gifted, and we like it here. 

But there is something about small town culture, isn't there? I'm grateful for Gilmore Girls and the Mitford books and Anne of Green Gables, because thanks to them, I knew small town life would be different. But Southern small town life is its own beast. And I told my mother the other day I was so confused. Because there are Friday Night Lights and arts festivals, and Jordan and I happen to really like both (we have always been football and museum kind of people). But we're discovering those cultures don't really cross one another's paths here. And it is so odd to straddle both -- to enjoy the high school marching band but to also relish painted murals on a wall. My mother -- because she is my mother -- insisted our tastes just mean we are well-rounded, but it doesn't really feel like that here. It feels like I have to choose, and I'd rather not. (Let's face it: I probably won't.)

Add to that dilemma the fact that I am known here now -- book lady and all that jazz -- but of course I am not really known, and it's all rather difficult.

I think this is really just what moving is like; in other words, maybe none of these scenarios is even specific to small town living. Maybe this is just what it's like to grow up and move and have to find your place in the world over and over and over again. 

We are carving out a space. We are attending high school football games (for which we had to Google what colors the teams wore) and finding local hang outs. I have discovered the city's best milkshake, which feels like a big accomplishment. We are attending local theater dinners and taking late night walks and learning to live with streets that shut down at 7:00 p.m. I am contemplating joining a gym, which we all know will end in futility, but it's fun to consider nonetheless. 

I read a lot of blogs by people who live in New York and San Francisco and Salt Lake City and Austin and Chicago, and they're lovely. I relish their words, and I don't read them because of their geography, but I wonder: Where are the small town dwellers, and what can they teach me? I am desperate to learn how I am supposed to do this, how I am supposed to find my place. I need to know what other small town dwellers know.

Jordan and I used to discuss, hypothetically, what it would be like to live in a small town. There's one conversation I remember with absolute clarity. We talked about how we would break in to people's lives, how we'd try to be approachable and kind. We talked about the fun (to Jordan) and horror (to me) of everyone knowing your name and your business.

I don't know what to think of all of this. I'm not quite sure if I'm the big city person I think I am, but there are days I wonder if a small town life is for me.

Of course, for today, it is. Because we have chosen this, and thus far, I don't think it's been a bad decision. Different from decisions our friends have made? Gosh, absolutely. Different from what we imagined? Probably, yes. But better? In many ways, you bet. 

So here we are, living in the small town South, figuring it out -- as so many of us are -- as we go. It's not so bad, really. We are trailblazers, in a way. I think one day, we will tell our children the stories of how mommy and daddy moved to a small town and bought a bookstore and tried to make things happen, and maybe they will laugh and roll their eyes, but maybe they'll be inspired to do something different, too.

in which i begin to talk about church.

"Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom." - II Corinthians 3:17

--

When I was a little girl, I would traipse up and down the outer aisles of our church building, making sure to step on each air conditioning vent, watching my dress as it would pouf out around me. In that moment, I was transformed from a little girl into a dinging bell or a dancing ballerina, whichever vision my imagination gifted me in the moment. 

That was church, and it was enough. 

--

One Sunday morning, when I was eight years old, a new girl visited my church. Her father was a prospective minister for our congregation, and I was in desperate need of a new friend. We were in the same Sunday school class, and when she got a marker cap stuck on her finger, I bravely volunteered to help her to the bathroom, where we used soap and water until the cap came clean. Her father became our new minister, and she became my best friend. 

That was church, and it was enough. 

--

"Youth group." Those two little words longed for from a childhood spent in church didn't hold magic for me like they did for my peers. The classes felt silly, and my friends, I discovered, were no longer at my church; they were at my school. And although the spiritual culture of my evangelical school was completely different from my own, I seemed to belong there more than anywhere else. I found myself leading prayers and devotionals in front of my class, participating in FCA, singing alongside praise teams, going forward at abstinence altar calls.

That was church, and at the time, it felt like enough. 

-- 

By my senior year, my fascination with evangelical culture was wearing thin. I wasn't sold on kissing dating goodbye, and I was tired of bowing my head and closing my eyes during invitation songs. I was weary of Kirk Cameron and Left Behind, of rapture bumper stickers and Christian radio. I was desperate for something more, for something familiar, and when I graduated, I chose a Christian college; not one rooted in evangelical traditions, but one grounded in the faith of my home church. Yet I fell in love with Jesus not in chapel services, but in classes honoring the classics, surrounded by professors deeply influenced by Catholic and Orthodox principles. We gathered multiple times a week around a table, breaking bread and communing together in ways that made my heart sing.

That became my new church, and it was lovely, and it was enough. 

--

After graduation, I moved back to my hometown, to my home congregation. My views were different than they were before, and the fault lines that had begun to show during my high school years became cracks in the surface of my faith. But a new minister had come to our church, and he talked about falling in love with Jesus, and he practiced what he preached, and Jordan moved to town, and together, we forged our own place at the church of my childhood. I fell in love with church all over again, and when the walls came tumbling down -- as they always seem to do -- it was a harder fall than it had been before. I had loved church, and loving the church made being hurt by her all the harder. But we had our friends and our family, and so that was still church, and it was still, somehow, enough. 

--

I am 28 years old, and all I really know for sure about church these days is that I love Jesus. That's it. Ask me what I want from a church, and I won't be able to tell you. Ask me what I want to do, what gifts I want to use, and I won't know. Ask me what I believe about doctrine and faith, and I'm not confident I'll have much of a response -- certainly not the kind you'd be looking for from someone born and raised in church. 

All of my church experiences -- all the joys and the hurts, the triumphs and the challenges, the highs and the lows -- I wouldn't trade them. And I won't deny my conservative upbringing, don't regret my evangelical high school or the traditional restorationist congregation where I grew up. I wouldn't trade any of that, because I'm confident all of those experiences helped shape who I am today. And despite my current confusion, I rather like who I have become and am becoming. 

But that lack of denial, that fondness for all the aspects of my spiritual upbringing, both happy and sad, makes it difficult to know how to move forward. I have found Jesus, the Father, and the Spirit in so many different places over my life, and that has somehow left me confused instead of free. I am not sure what that means.

Jordan and I are in the position, for the first time, of choosing a church in adulthood. And for the first time, I understand why so many of my peers leave church. Not just the church of their childhood, but church in general. This picking and choosing, this visiting one church and then the next? It's not for the faint of heart. Truly. The faint of heart couldn't handle it. (I am sure of this, because my own heart is growing thin.) 

I love Jesus. And I think for some people, that's enough. Church is secondary, community can be found elsewhere. I know this, and I wish often it were the case for me. 

But I love church. I love the singing and the praying; I love turning the well-worn pages of my Bible, love sitting alongside strangers and friends to worship a God we can't see, a God who supposedly up from the grave arose. I love it in all its strangeness, in all its absurdity. I love it, and for me, I don't see any other way. 

The question, then, for me and for Jordan, becomes where to go next. In the move to Thomasville, we more or less left the church we were attending in hopes of becoming part of a community of faith in our new town, not realizing, I suppose, what exactly that would mean. 

So far it has meant a few awkward lunches, several bizarre communion stories (one involving spit-up, the other involving an usher who refused to let us hold the plate of crackers ourselves), a lot of new songs, and more introductions than I can count. 

And because we now live in a small town, it has also meant adjusting to a smaller congregation size. It has meant being recognized and conversed with, sometimes awkwardly and at length, about everything, but really about nothing. (And that, for me, has maybe been the hardest of all.)

Our new town has also meant an exploration of other options, options that, when we were 18, we might not have thought possible. We have now worshipped in congregations where women still wear head coverings and long skirts; where congregants bow to the cross and and kneel during prayer. We have sipped wine from chalices and accepted crackers from the hands of priests. 

We have done all these things, visited all these places, and we still do not know where to go. 

I'm not sure what this means. As a person who has long loved Jesus and believed in the most impossible scenarios -- life over death, the miraculous over the practical -- I do not know where to go next. At 28, I am less sure than I was at 18, and yet... I find that makes the most sense. 

At 18, the questions hadn't started. The discoveries were just beginning, the black and white were very slowly melding into grey. As a believer, I have to grow comfortable, I think, with some grey areas. Scripture leaves so much to the imagination, and I am becoming more okay with that than when I was 18. I am, perhaps, growing into my faith, realizing that maybe -- just maybe -- this whole thing is bigger than I have made it.

So with every visit, my opinions become more varied. We are thinking of ourselves, of our marriage, of our future children. We are deciding what kind of people we want to grow into and become, and for us personally, church still plays a big part in those decisions. 

I am so grateful that somewhere in my faith story, I found a partner who will ask hard questions with me, who will seek the Lord in every place He may be found, who believes He may be found in all kinds of places, in all kinds of ways. 

We talk together a lot, these days, about church and Jesus. We both acknowledge our confusion, but we also acknowledge the conclusions we are reaching. We are discovering, with each conversation, who we want to be and who we want to become. 

A lot of people I know leave church. At the very least, they leave the church in which they were born and raised. 

For us, that leap has been a difficult one. Neither of us is even sure that's what's next. 

But our conversations and our struggles are bringing us closer together and oddly, I find myself drawing closer to the Savior. I am realizing, despite the improbability of it, that the God I serve can be found -- bizarrely, miraculously -- in the head coverings and in the chalices, in four-part harmony and in chants, in quiet moments bowed down in prayers, and in happy-clappy moments at the altar. He inserts Himself, somehow, inexplicably, in all of these places and beyond. 

Perhaps that is truly church. Maybe, just maybe, it is enough.

Photo by Hannah Queen. 

on learning to love.

{photo by Steve Richey}

I have gone to the same church my entire life. 

Sure, there was college. An out-of-state internship. But most every Sunday for the past 27 years, I've attended the same small, conservative church. 

And it has been hard. 

There have been hurts. Church doctrine that doesn't match my own (or, doesn't match what I believe Scripture to say). Decisions that I haven't understood. Leadership that looks different from what I might have chosen.

We have stayed through every storm, even when it hurt. Even when it was hard. 

But changes are coming. 

Our minister -- a man who we love, respect, and trust -- is leaving. He is leaving, and we aren't sure what that might mean for us. We think quite seriously it might be time for us to move on. We're contemplating a move to Thomasville, and with the minister we love saying goodbye, we think it may be our time too. 

And so, now, each service takes on new meaning. There are so many things I struggle with in our church, in the religious traditions of our childhoods. But we are loved here. I look around, and I see people I have known and loved my entire life. Some a little odd. Many kind. Others not. This is a congregation full of young and old. White and black. Conservative and liberal. As a result, there are often growing pains and disgruntled murmurings. But there is also patience and forgiveness. 

I sing the hymns I have known for years, listen as the four-part harmonies are raised to Heaven. I hear people who can't carry a tune, see the couple that sings to each other, watch as people smile and frown, as babies cry and old men cough. 

Every Sunday, I drink grape juice and eat crackers that never seem like enough. Every Sunday, it seems, I begin to cry. Not so much over past hurts anymore, but over the realization that soon, we might be saying goodbye. 

No church is perfect. I know that. But I also know Jordan and I have struggled for a long time over the question of church, over where we belong and where we should worship. It's important to us, ingrained in us. It would be impossible for us not to go somewhere, and I understand that's foreign for a lot of people. But to us, it's as natural as breathing. 

So we will go somewhere. But we're not sure where. 

It could be this same dark, brick building, filled with familiar faces, hugs and handshakes. 

But I think it's more likely it will be somewhere new. And because of that, I cry a lot during church now. Because yes, I have been hurt here. But I also have learned how to love here. 

The Scripture I believe is full of hard, difficult teachings. Perhaps the hardest is the command to love, and nowhere have I learned more about love than in the church. 

My family -- my precious, quirky, dear-to-me family -- is easy for me to love. I think you'd love them too, if you met them. 

My friends -- my kindred spirits, my guiding posts, my listening ears -- are easy for me to love. Chances are, you'd love them too, if you got to know them. 

But church? Where people of all walks of life come to find healing and peace and purpose? Church can be full of people who are hard to love. People who have been hurt, so now they hurt others. People with staunch opinions and tried-and-true belief systems that are just so different from my own. 

Church is one of the only places where I am forced to love. 

Don't like a coworker? You can hide in your office. Avoid them at company lunches. 

Don't like a church member in a church of 250? You're guaranteed to run into them at the water fountain, in the bathroom, on the way to class, just a few seats down in the sanctuary. 

They are unavoidable, and it becomes too painful. Too painful to sit idly by. 

And that's when you can choose. Choose to become bitter and hard. Or choose to let the Spirit rise up in you to love. 

This church family I've called mine for 27 years? There are some lovely people here. People as dear to me as the family that raised me. But there are also the prickly ones, the grouchy ones, the difficult ones to bear. 

And it's from those -- from all of those, really -- I've learned love and forgiveness. 

I'm not sure where Jordan and I will go next. 2014 will be full of more decisions, more choices. 

But should we choose to leave, we will leave this place better people. (And, of course, my hope is that we will leave the church itself better than where we found it.) 

We will leave, I think, knowing how to really, truly love. 

a brief word on manhood.

I am not really much of a crier. Sure, sometimes there's a Publix commercial or yes, every single episode of Parenthood and The Wonder Years, but overall, I don't cry that much. I cry mostly when things move me, when I see something sad or beautiful or heartachingly happy. But it's not often, not really, and it's certainly not something I do in public. 

But Saturday, I got tearful while ringing up a couple of people at the register. 

It was this dad and his two kids, a boy and a girl. The girl was maybe 12, 13, with braces, kind of tall, thin. You could tell she wasn't quite a teenager yet, still definitely in the "kid" stage. Not consumed yet with coolness or thoughts of what other people think. The boy was younger, maybe 9, 10. And the way they treated each other -- kind of teasing, joking with each other -- was just the most precious thing. Maybe it's because I see a lot of kids in the store, lots of kids who clearly don't really like their siblings, or, who at the most, are ambivalent toward them. But I loved watching these kids. It was clear they loved each other, even liked each other. 

They picked out their cupcakes, and their dad came over to the register to pay. I've started to keep "impulse buys" up at the register: reading glasses, Le Pens, and these really great "book lover" buttons. They're fun, and at $1 a piece, they're hard to resist. The girl started digging through the pins; she loved them. (I'd figured her for a big reader, and I was right.) While she was looking, her dad was paying. The credit card had been swiped, and by the time the girl picked out which button she wanted, it was too late. The dad looked sorry, but the girl didn't whine or anything, just shrugged her shoulders and started to leave.

But her brother stopped her. "I'll get it for you!" he said. "Pick out a couple of pens you want too; I'm going to get some." 

And just like that, I started to get tearful. 

This kind of stuff never happens at the register. Siblings are never that kind to each other, and -- more often than not -- they're whiney and petulant about what they can and can't have. These kids were so good-natured; I was in awe. The brother wanted his sister to get the pin she wanted, and she looked at him and smiled so happily. "Really?" she said. "Sure," the brother shrugged. Not a big deal.

And I guess it wasn't a big deal. But it reminded me so much of my brother, of my relationship with him, that it just brought tears to my eyes. Chet and I don't have the perfect relationship, and we weren't always close when we were younger. (I'm pretty sure he may still have some scars that one time I dug my nails into his arm and started to scratch...) But I think generally, we liked each other. One Valentine's Day, he left a bouquet of sharpened pencils on my desk at home. I played outside with him. He played school with me. We were friends. 

These kids had that kind of relationship, I think, and it made me so happy. I figured that was the reason I started to tear up; these kids reminded me of my childhood, my relationship with my sibling. 

When I got home Saturday night, I told the story to Jordan, and he smiled. "What?" I asked, figuring he was probably just getting a kick out of my sentimental ways. 

"That's manhood," he said. "What you saw today is how men should act. That kid was acting like a man should." 

Maybe it's because I've been talking to a friend lately about what manhood looks like. Maybe it's because there's so much discussion in the Christian evangelical world about "becoming a man" and what it means to be tough and masculine. Maybe it's because there are all kinds of books devoted to the differences between boys and girls and what men need and what women need. 

We forget we all need kindness. Gentleness. Grace. Generosity. 

That little boy reminded me of my brother, no doubt about it. Chet hasn't been home since May, and in our close-knit family, that's odd and unusual, and I miss him. That little boy's actions reminded me of Chet, but I think Jordan's right: They also reminded me of how men should behave. 

In a world where little boys grow up and make big, horrific mistakes -- mistakes that involve other human beings and hurt and pain and an overall misunderstanding on how to treat people, how to treat women -- it's touching to see someone who is being taught what to do rather than what not to do. 

It's a small thing, I know. I've no doubt that brother and sister fight and quarrel and hurt each other with their words and actions. One moment doesn't define a relationship. 

But I'd like to think somewhere, that boy is learning how to treat girls. I'd like to think his mother and father are trying hard to show him the way, teaching him that his words and actions affect other people. Yes, it was just a few dollars, just an on-a-whim purchase for a sister who wanted something nice. But really, it was more. 

Jordan and I want children one day, maybe even one day not so far down the road. We talk all the time about our dreams for them, about what we envision for our future as a family, about the legacies we'll leave them, the things we'll pass on that were passed down to us. 

We're nervous a little, too. The world our children will enter is a lot different from the one we were born into. A few weeks ago on Twitter, this Vanity Fair article was making the rounds, and I finally had to stop reading because it was so terrifying. I read bits and pieces aloud to Jordan, and we looked at each other in horror. This is what waits for our kids? 

It's terrifying, but it's also a call to bring children up in a way that leads them to treat all people -- of all genders, races, and orientations -- with love and respect. If we truly believe the tenets of Jesus, if we truly claim to call Christianity ours, our children will have to look different. They'll have to act differently. I don't know what exactly that will mean. I know they will make mistakes and they will pitch fits and they will have to say they're sorry. 

But I hope so desperately our children will be the ones who perform small acts of kindness for each other. I hope they will be selfless and generous. I hope they will treat others even better than they want to be treated themselves. 

Jordan was right. That little boy this weekend was a reminder of what real manhood looks like. It's not about physical strength or macho behavior. It's not about fantasy football or who's in charge of the remote or the six-pack waiting in the refrigerator. 

It's about the jokes they choose not to tell. It's about the words they choose not to speak. It's about looking out for others. It's about showing kindness. It's about grace. 

And isn't that true for just about everything? 

this is the body.

Every Sunday, I sit in a cushioned pew in a plain, windowless wooden building. There is no incense, no organ music, no choir. The lights are dim, and the babies wail, and the entire congregation sings hymns in four-part harmony. We pass gold plates, and I take slivers of cracker and gulps of grape juice.

It is far from perfect, but it is what I know. 

A few weeks ago, I read a blog post by Sarah Bessey, and although I remember almost nothing about the post itself, I do remember this question she asks off-handedly somewhere in the middle. 

"Can we ever really leave our Mother Church?" 

It's a question I've thought a lot about off and on these past couple of months as we've struggled with goodbyes and growing pains at a church that has been my home for 27 years. It's a question I've shoved to the back of my mind most days this summer, consumed instead with thoughts about the business, about the practical, day-to-day tasks I've simply had to get done. 

But when my mind wanders, I think about that question, and I think about my answer. And I guess, the truth is, I don't really have one -- at least not one I'm comfortable sharing. 

Perhaps, though, the answer can be found in the fact that despite all the hurts and frustrations and struggles, we are still there, every Sunday, in that same cushioned pew, praying for guidance and singing with hope. 

We were in Alabama this past weekend, gathered together with a side of the family we only see once a year, on Labor Day, like clockwork. It's a reunion of sorts, aunts and uncles and cousins and babies, a matriarch growing frail and fragile, but still, somehow, strong. 

And each year, like clockwork, we host our own church service, singing in the living room or down by the water, offering up prayers and praises to a God we serve together. 

It would be foreign and uncomfortable to some, I know. But to me? It's just how it's always been done. 

So on Sunday, my uncle guided us through Scripture. My father led us in song. And my brother, a bearded, dirty theologian, walked us through the Eucharist. 

I come from a church where the Eucharist -- the Lord's Supper -- is simple and somber. It is quick, and though meaningful, it leaves me longing for more: more cracker, more grape juice, more joy, more time. 

On Sunday, I think I got a glimmer of what this sacred meal is really all about. 

We 15 (plus two babies) gathered around the table. We broke unleavened bread in the middle of our supper, drank wine before dessert. We shared our pains and hopes, heard about hardships and rejoiced over good news. 

I tore a tortilla in half and gave part of it to my husband, reminding him: This is Christ's body, broken for you. I spoke the promise out loud, and in doing so, realized the fullness of the sacrament. I was reminded of our wedding vows, of our promise to be there for each other, to sacrifice for each other. 

The bread is Christ's vow, spoken for me. 

The wine is Christ's promise, given to me. 

And to get to hear those precious words spoken aloud between family and friends? 

Pure joy. 

I'll go to church this Sunday, and the Lord's supper I take won't look much like that. I think that's okay. I think God honors the promises we speak silently to ourselves. I think He honors the somber and the awe-filled and the quiet. I think He loves our traditions, even when they are imperfect, even when they are maybe less than what they could be.

But I also think He so loves the giggles, and the joys, and the words spoken out loud. I think He loved our gathering Sunday, over barbecue and hashbrowns and wine. I think He loved watching our matriarch pass the plate in a way she never had before. I think He loved watching my bearded brother, the baby of our family, find his place at the table. I think He loved our remembrances and our recollections, our laughter and our tears. 

I think He treasures the vows just like we do.

Sunday, it felt like I was saying them back to Him.

forgiveness.

"You only have to forgive once. To resent, you have to do it all day, every day."

- The Light Between Oceans

---

I have this quote floating around in the pages of my planner, scribbled down sometime last month, when I was in the middle of reading The Light Between Oceans for book club. I wrote it down because I couldn't figure out if I agreed with it or not, and I figured eventually, it would become fodder for the blog, or the journal, or a conversation among friends. 

A month later, and I am in the middle of deciding: forgive or resent? And the decision is not as easy as I thought it would be, because I think The Light Between Oceans is wrong. I think forgiveness is an over and over and over again decision. And I know what the author meant. I know forgiveness is far less painful to live with than a heart with its roots in bitterness and anger. Forgiveness is the right choice, but I do not believe it is an easy one. 

I think forgiveness is a gate we approach again and again, and we constantly have to decide if we're going to walk through. We have to decide if we're going to do the hard work of forgiveness and enter into the next season, or if we're going to stay feet firmly planted right where we are, heartbroken and waiting for something to happen, waiting for another gate to open, another option to come our way. 

For almost six years, I have written faithfully in this space about my 20s, about finding new jobs and beginning new adventures. I've written about quitting graduate school, about marrying my best friend, about traveling and cooking and friend-making and losing. And in the middle of all of those posts, I have written a lot about church. About belief and doubt. About continuing to choose to serve a place well, even when it is hard or feels like it doesn't matter. 

I was confessing to my parents the other night that these have been hard seasons for me, spiritually-speaking. I went away to college at 18 and came home spiritually alive, and it's hard to maintain that kind of high for any extended period of time, mostly because my life doesn't exist in a bubble or a vacuum. I graduated college, and I now deal every day with people who believe very different things from me, and it can be hard. It has felt, often, like I am wandering in the spiritual desert I used to warn our teenagers about in Bible class. 

But I don't think it has been all dry bones. I have learned so much about myself, about my limits, about my beliefs and my faith. I think my college years were special ones because, for whatever reason, I was allowed to expand my faith in a safe place, in a bubble I no longer live in. And I'm grateful for that bubble, but I see now it is good to be out of it, to test the waters and see if my faith can stand. (It hasn't always, and that's okay.)

I think it is good to be protected and safe for a while, to learn and ask questions among friends and people who love you. But life doesn't always look like that, and these spiritual deserts we wander deserve our attention, and our gratitude. And just like every desert has its oasis, I, too, have had highs in the middle of some lows. I have experienced victories among the defeats, and I'm confident I will look back on my 20s not with sadness, but with joy, because I used these years to become. 

The desert at hand, though, requires forgiveness before it can be crossed, before I can become just a little bit more. 

I have blogged about church hurt before, and at length, and I'm done with that for now, I think, because I simply can't talk about it anymore. I am tired and all dried up. I told Jordan this week that I have been so overwhelmed by it all, I haven't even been able to write about it. And that's hard, because normally, that's how I cope and endure. 

So instead of writing about it in unimportant details, I'm choosing every morning these days to wake up and forgive. I do believe forgiveness brings more peace than bitterness, but I also believe forgiveness can be the harder choice. I don't think it's a one-time decision, and I don't think it's easy. It's daily and routine, and that makes it difficult.  

I finished Glennon Melton's book Carry On, Warrior this week, and although I don't really love being referred to as a "Monkee" (apparently her pet name for her blog readers), I do love being told that I can do hard things. 

And every morning, while I do yoga poses and breathe deep and say prayers, I remind myself that yes, forgiveness is hard, but I am more than capable of doing hard things.

A truth about forgiveness I love.

fear and trembling.

{photo by Nicholas Strobelt}

A friend sent me an email last week asking questions about faith and salvation, questions I felt completely unqualified to answer. The thing is, though, very few of us are actually qualified to answer any questions about faith and life and spirit; they're too deep, too mysterious for any of us. So I did my best to give my friend words I think are truth, words I believe and am trying desperately to live by. 

My friend's question had to do with the timing of salvation, the point at which we accept God's grace and become one of His. And I don't know for sure when that happens, mostly because I believe it is still happening. I believe every day I wake up is an opportunity to fall into more of His grace, to work out my salvation, as Paul put it, with fear and trembling. 

The older I get, the more mysterious I believe it all is, and the more comforting I find that mystery. Don't misunderstand: I am confident in my salvation. I do not wake up every morning in fear He will no longer choose me. I just don't believe salvation is instantaneous; I believe it is continual. It is a choice, on my part, and I think, to some extent, it is a choice on His. I cemented my choice way back then, as a scrawny 13 year old dunked under water, and every day I continue to make that choice real and true.

When I was a little girl, issues on salvation concerned me. I went to an evangelical Christian school whose beliefs on the subject of salvation didn't align perfectly with my parents' and my church's views, and as a kid, that was often confusing. I never knew if I needed to raise my hand and recite the sinner's prayer; in fact, looking back, I may have said it a couple of times just to make sure I was covered (and so well-meaning teachers would stop trying to "save" me every chance they got). 

I'm different now. I believe salvation matters -- oh, how it matters! But I don't want to argue about the ins and outs and hows and whys. I don't want to argue about them, because I firmly believe those arguments -- Scripture against Scripture, belief against belief -- take away the power and mystery of it all. I want to embrace the magic, and I want to continue to work out all the knots and twists in my story.

My friend, I think, will have to continue wrestling too. I think as people, we like certainty. We like knowing we did it right. We like checking things off the list. 

Faith, I am realizing, doesn't easily befriend certainty. Instead, it embraces mystery. 

I am trying to do the same.  

staying on the wall.

{photo by Danielle Hughson}

I picked my word for the year, and every day it becomes more and more apparent I must have picked the right one. I've been challenged and stretched in the past 14 days in ways I couldn't have predicted back on December 31, and I suppose -- in the end -- it will mean I'm closer to who I want to be at the end of 2013 than I was the year before. 

Last Sunday, our minister encouraged us to identify one thing we need to accomplish in 2013. Not one thing as a congregation or a community, but one thing we each need to accomplish as individuals: a relationship ended or mended, boundaries set, responsibilities met. One thing that would turn our life upside down -- for the better -- in the next 12 months.

I was stumped. I'm a goal setter, and I spend a lot of time thinking about ways I could improve and become a better version of myself. But for the life of me, I couldn't really put my finger on just one thing I need to focus on this year, one thing that would change my very small, very full life. 

---

Way back in the Old Testament, there's this story about a normal guy named Nehemiah who decided he needed to build a wall around the city of Jerusalem. It was kind of an impossible project, something naysayers and friends told him he'd never be able to accomplish. But the people came together, and with a lot of prayer -- seriously, Nehemiah prays all the time -- the wall was built. And -- here's the crazy part -- the goal was accomplished in a remarkable 52 days. 

The great part about this story is that Nehemiah was average, and for whatever reason, God chose not to interfere in his wall-building, not in the ways the people of the Old Testament were used to Him interfering. There were no earthquakes, no miraculous moments, no overnight bricks put up. Instead, Nehemiah had to recruit friends, family, acquaintances, and neighbors to get the job done.

And you know what? Despite his admirable goal, not everyone was supportive. 

Shocking, isn't it, that when Nehemiah identified his goal, he was met with opposition and ridicule from all sides? (Not.) 

And every time Nehemiah was encouraged to stop building, to stop creating, to take a break for just a moment, he sent down one response: 

I am doing a great work, and I cannot come down. 

In other words, I'm busy. I'm focused. And you cannot distract me. 

---

I still haven't figured out what my "one thing" for 2013 is. But I'm discovering that Nehemiah's words are true for even the smallest of goals I've set, and perhaps they ring especially true in the seemingly mundane work I do everyday: in my home, on my marriage, at my job. 

Why do I clean my house? Why do I go to bed a little earlier than some? Why do I choose to spend a lot of my extra time with my husband? Why do I focus on a few friendships instead of dozens? Why do I walk every day? Why do I read? Why do I write?

Because I'm trying really hard to do a great work, and I cannot come down. 

It's January 14, which means some of our resolutions have already fallen by the wayside. But if you're looking for reason to stick it out this year, if you're tired of failing and being second-guessed, I hope you know: The work you are trying to accomplish is great, whether it's personal or spiritual, familial or physical. You are doing great things, and you know what? Sometimes, it's okay to say: I cannot come down right now. I'm choosing to stay focused. 

I guess I'm just telling you what I heard last Sunday, the message that encouraged me to stay the course in 2013, that told me the work I'm doing -- whether big or small to the outside -- is great, and it's worthy of my attention. 

It's 2013, and it's time to stay on the wall.

when a change in attitude looks a lot like apathy.

{photo by Kmecu}

Last fall, I was in the middle of a heartbreaking season of church-hurt. Each Sunday, I would wake up with a stomachache, literal and metaphorical. I was broken and lost and annoyed and very ready to give up on the church I've called home for most of my life. 

Then my grandmother fell, and her quick journey toward the next life left me at odds with my own here. 

What had hurt so much in those last months of 2011 (and 2010!) just didn't matter to me anymore. My focus changed, and forgiveness -- though, it should be noted, not necessarily forgetfulness -- became the priority. I forgave, and my heart healed, and I chose to move forward, remaining at a congregation that yes, had caused a lot of hurt, but that had also provided immense comfort for my family at a time when we needed it the most.

I chose to spend the early months of 2012 focusing on my spiritual growth, on rebuilding my relationship with Christ, on letting go of the bitterness I'd begun to let take hold of my heart. I chose -- am still choosing -- to make the kingdom, not the church, my priority.  

I think that shift in attitude looked a lot like apathy to a lot of people. 

Don't get me wrong: The things that hurt and make my heart cry at injustice? Those things still bother me. Very much. 

Yet my grandmother's death reminded me in this life I have a few choices. And choosing to be hurt and bitter can be crippling.

The church hurts a lot of people. I know that. I understand that. 

A friend who's currently figuring out her own stances of faith appeared shocked when I told her I went to a church where I'm not allowed to stand up in prayer, where I can't read aloud from the same Scriptures my husband can, where my role as a teacher is limited to teaching children (which bothers me even though children know more about faith than grown-ups do).

She couldn't understand how my conscience could let me continue to worship there. I wanted her to understand: Those things bother me. They are hard for me. I do not understand them, and believe it or not, I am sometimes a little bit alone in that lack of understanding. 

I could be angry about it. I could move on and go elsewhere. Maybe one day, I will.

For now, though, I choose to stay. 

I stay because my faith is in a loving, imaginative, creative God who loves me as His strong and powerful daughter.

I stay because my faith is in a Savior who went out of His way to talk to women other people wouldn't, who treated women not as less, but as equal.

I stay because my grandmother, my mother, and my aunts teach me every day that I am capable of making a difference right where I am. 

Those hurts from a year ago? They came from feeling silenced. 

I don't feel silenced anymore. 

Instead, my life is richer, fuller. My faith -- my purpose -- is no longer solely found in church ministry or in church work.

My grandmother's death taught me that sometimes, it's more important to look outward than inward. 

I am grateful for that season of hurt, because it taught me what I get hurt about. I learned an important lesson about myself, about what gets me riled up and anxious for change. 

And now that the season has passed, I can channel that anger into causes that are bigger than my congregation's doors. (Although, it should be noted, I do hope change darkens the door of my congregation one day, whether I am there to see it or not.) 

A couple of weeks ago, PBS ran the special Half the Sky. If you haven't watched it, watch it, and if you haven't read it, read it. (I'm reading it now.) 

Half the Sky opened my eyes to the heartbreaking injustices women and girls all around the world are experiencing; it also inspired me to be part of the charge that makes it possible for them to hope, that empowers them to change. 

Mostly, though, it reminded me that the world is a whole lot bigger than I think it is. 

Yes, I think it's a little bit unjust I can't read the Scripture I love aloud in a room full of women and men. 

But I think it's more unjust that a little girl can be taken from her home and into sex slavery overnight. 

And now, anytime my panties get in a twist over something I feel like the church has done to me, I think about what we aren't doing for the girls around the world. 

"No country can get ahead if it leaves half its people behind." If that's true -- and I believe that it is -- the same is true for the kingdom, for the church. 

My attitude changed earlier this year. I forgave, and I let go, and I stopped fighting for the things I had thought were worth fighting for. 

I don't think that makes me apathetic. 

I don't think staying at a church full of loving people who may not see eye-to-eye on the things I care about is a lack of intelligence or a sign of weakness. 

Does that mean I'll stay there forever? Probably not. 

For now though, I'm choosing to make a difference right where I am. I'm choosing to focus on loving Jesus, hoping that loving His people will continue to follow suit. 

I'm choosing faith, and I'm choosing to focus on the very big world that sometimes has gotten lost in my very me-focused life.

Really, it's all just so much bigger than I've made it.