I am amazed at how random things can make you see and feel things deeply inside your heart. Things that you weren’t even aware were there.
My youngest son, who is 8, started his first season of baseball in September. My other two kids have tried sports and needless to say we are not a real “sporty” family. Don’t get me wrong, we like to play outside and camp and hike and do those sorts of things, but organized sports are just not our thing.
Jonah wanted to try baseball. His best friend is on the same team, and we had all the baseball paraphernalia from our last failed attempt with his older brother so we thought, “What the heck, let’s give it one more shot!” So, we signed him up. Three days before his first practice he fell off his bunk bed and broke his arm. Seriously? He would have a cast on his arm for a month and then have limited movement for a few weeks after the cast came off. We had already paid so we decided to go ahead and let him “play”.
Needless to say, he was limited. I took him and his bag of gear up to the park for his first practice. He met the kids and the coach, hung out with his friend and then practice started. He couldn’t do anything. He wasn’t allowed to run so he sat on the side and watched. We left early.
We skipped the next practice. Then I had the thought, “Even though his arm is broken, he is still part of a team and he needs to show up.” So we went to the next practice and he “helped” the coach with random stuff. While I was sitting in my collapsible camp chair, I heard that voice inside my heart, “You have a broken arm.”
I’ll explain.
It has been about eight years since the church I grew up in disintegrated. I don’t use that word lightly. To me it disintegrated. It was like a plate that accidentally slips over the edge of the counter. I watched it fall and shatter. Splintering into a million pieces. Even writing this down… the old ache comes back into my chest. I miss it. I miss them.
I grew up surrounded by a big family. Not just me and my four siblings, but a community of people who were as close as family could be. My dad was the pastor of a little church that was vibrant and alive. As a kid growing up, it was incredible. People knew me. They loved me and accepted me. They challenged me. I grew up and met a cute boy and we got married. He got to see and be a part of this extended family. I honestly thought that we would all be together, have kids together and our community would thrive and go on. It didn’t.
Now. You will have to bear with me. Healing is painful. Sometimes it can be ugly. My heart is not to be ugly or angry. I honestly don’t feel angry, I feel sad. I’m disappointed. I’m confused.
In the late 90s a “Move of God” began to sweep over the country. We simply called it “The Renewal.” God did amazing things and I remember a feeling of anticipation and excitement that I hadn’t ever known. The kingdom of God was showing up and it was really an awesome thing to see and be a part of. But as with anything the focus got skewed and as quickly as this thing started, it seemed to unravel just as quickly. People started leaving. People were upset that their “giftings” weren’t being acknowledged or utilized properly. “Prophets” were coming to our church and promising things that they had no business promising. “You will be the happiest church in America!” In reality we were already sick and dying.
I saw marriages fall apart under the strain of “ministry” and children turn away from Jesus. Other secret sins were revealed. They were devastating to those involved.
During the last years of our fellowship being together, Steve and I were in the throes of having babies and toddlers and figuring out how to be parents. By the time we looked up out of the sleepless fog, our church was a shell. We, as well as everyone else, knew that it was time to let it go. At the time I thought, “It’s about time, we need to move on.” So we did. We even moved to another state and I tried to just put it behind me.
A few months after the church ended, I remember going to the grocery store. I ran into a precious friend from our fellowship. She asked how I was doing and I told her I was struggling with moving on. She said “You need to get over it. It’s over. There are whole new adventures in the kingdom of God!!” We ended our conversation, and I felt bad that I hadn’t been able to move on. I was stuck and couldn’t get my feet moving.
Then I realized that you don’t just “get over” someone dying. The church had been my whole growing up. It had helped shape who I was, and it was gone. These people who I had lived life with, prayed with and grown with were all gone. Literally moved away or were still in the same town, but if you ran into them it was awkward. I was the pastor’s daughter and they felt weird. Some relationships remained intact, and I am grateful, but there had been a death. A sad, tragic death and you don’t just “get over” that. Other people have been able to move on, to find new communities, but for me it has been really difficult.
I have a broken arm. I am still showing up to practice. But I can’t do much. I don’t know where I fit. We go to a HUGE church now, and I have tried to find my neighborhood within this big “church-city” but I don’t know how. It’s just so big and there are so many “Church famous” people. It exhausts me. In all honesty, we don’t even go very often anymore. I’m tired.
The thing that I do know is that when Jesus sees me, he does’t see a crippled heart or a broken arm. He just sees me. He is acquainted with grief. He is familiar with my grief. I believe it was time for that fellowship to part ways. It was time. I sometimes worry that we will be alone forever. That I will never find a community of believers… a family like that again.
You know what? I won’t. That fellowship was together for that sliver of time and I was lucky to have been a part of it. I am so thankful for the people who helped raise me. I love them all dearly. I know that the kingdom of God is larger than that church and that I would never have been the person I am today if it hadn’t been for those precious brothers and sisters pouring into my life. We will find our neighborhood.
I believe God moves in and through his people. I believe in the prophetic and the gifts of the Spirit of God. I have seen Him do amazing things and heal hearts and bodies. But you know what speaks of Jesus to me now more than a prophetic word? A friend who knows me and knows what kind of season I am in and offers to take my kids for the afternoon. A husband who kisses me as I walk out the door to go to work in the evening, and I know that everything will run smoothly because he has strong shoulders.
I am seeing that “church” has changed its meaning for me over these years. People have come into my world and are coming alongside and living life with us and we are opening up and living life with them. I am teaching my kids how to see Jesus in the everyday and be His hands and feet the best way I can. The thing about having a broken arm is that it keeps you humble. You have to ask for help. I thought I had all the spiritual answers, and now I know that I definitely don’t. Life, family, church, and people are a messy business. I am messy, but I am healing.
So, there you have it. Another baseball analogy. Jonah got his cast off and was sore for a couple weeks but with practice and faithfulness he is really turning into a good little baseball player. Hmmm…… maybe there’s hope for me after all.
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