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.