Once again I didn’t make it to Pastor Jackie’s church. But I did visit my former church this afternoon. The comforting, familiar scent of old wood and fresh candle wax wrapped around me and I realized I how much had been missing this. Not just the reverent ceremony of worship in a church but this church building. My church. Where I had been baptized, learned Bible stories and songs in Sunday school and where I had the honor of escorting my Grandma, who had the greatest Faith I’ve ever witnessed, to services every week during the last few years of her life. The church where I had envisioned my son being baptized.
I think I’ve mentioned that it is a very small country church. Deserted at noon on Sunday. I just walked in and sat, in the quiet, talking to God and crying for a long time.
It felt horribly wonderful to sit in the familiar pew washed with warm light. Wonderful because I was able to fully talk to God in a way I haven’t been able to since my beautiful boy died inside me on Dec. 4. Horrible because this kind of overwhelming anger, sadness and despair is truly appalling to feel, almost unspeakable.
I raged and raged at God and asked every “why” there was to ask. And I cried and cried. Every emotional scab I’ve managed to achieve was ripped open and again I wondered if I’d survive.
I told God I hated Him and if he’d been in front of me as a person, I would have physically murdered him. Simultaneously, I experienced horror and shock that I could feel this way.
Eventually I was burned out of anger and wrung dry of tears. I sat there longer still and finally a modicum calmness came. This is far from over between God and I but finally I’m able to pray a little.
I left my church and took a long walk. It was cleansing to feel the sun, warm on my face and the breeze in my hair.
Maybe next week I’ll go to Pastor Jackie’s church.
Or maybe I’ll go back to my church and have it out with God again.
Picture of the Day: