If I’ve learned one thing (among a thousand) it’s that you never know what that person in the pew is going through on Sunday morning. It may be the person a few rows ahead or a few rows back, it may be the person just to your left. It doesn’t matter, many people walk through the doors of the sanctuary carrying a heavy load. Even more common, they wear a smile.
The month I ‘broke’ as I think of it now, I went to church. It was 24 hours after I told my former husband that I couldn’t do it anymore. I can’t believe it looking back but somehow, some way, I pulled myself together to get there, praying, hoping to find comfort. He was with me, sitting beside me. How he did it, I don’t know, but he wanted to be there too. Who was I to tell him he couldn’t go…
I couldn’t hold back the tears.
I was falling apart.
I felt like I was sitting in the congregation, the lights were low, with a spotlight on me.
I didn’t hear the sermon that day, I didn’t hear God that day.
My Daddy was in the choir, I couldn’t see him clearly but I so desperately wanted to see him.
I was lost.
On the back of my bulletin I wrote these words…
I left that day and collapsed into my house like I’d fallen into a dark hole and didn’t know if I would ever be able to crawl out of it. Little did I know how strong I could be.