Dear God,

Where I’ve been is sort of a mystery. You see, I kept meaning to come to church each Sunday. But something would happen. Such as… I would wake up and find I’d (purposely) not set my alarm, and it was 11am. Or… I would wake up at 9:30a, and find that Stephen was much more comfortable than getting out of bed early on a Sunday, so… you’d lose. By the end of my pregnancy, there was always the favorite refrain of, “I’m too tired.” After Ryan was born, the refrain changed to, “No sleep last night!”

It’s not that I’d forgotten you, either. I mean, I keep my Bible in a blue Bible cover, and I would think of you every time I picked it up to move it out of my way, or dust it off. I would think of you every time I saw something awful on television and said a quick prayer, or each time I would be outside late at night and the stars would be shining. I’d smile and think of you.

Really, though, only when it was convenient.

Stephen and I talked about you a lot. We’d say things like, “We really need to get back to church.” Or, “I think I know that guy from a Bible study.” Or we’d talk about you when my steadfast elder Chris would call on occasion to give us updates on goings-on at the church, or just inquire about our health and general welfare.

Lately, I was thinking about you when I was thinking about missing my friends from church. And missing reading your word. And missing having people to talk to who think like me. Or, rather, how I used to think. “Be in the world, not of the world.” I’ve been sliding away from you, which means toward the world. I’m pretty sure it’s either one or the other.

Today, I thought of you when we dropped Ryan off in the church nursery with people I haven’t seen for a few years. I thought of you when we sang the beautiful hymns, and I thought of you while the pastor taught us Psalm 31, and the sermon hit painfully close to home. I thought of how you never leave, and that’s both dangerously unmotivating yet such a blessed relief when I finally come home. Again. And again. And again.

The problem isn’t you, God. Of course. It never is. Every time I look over my shoulder, you’re still there. There are two directions one can walk on the narrow path. I want to walk with my face to the Son.

Love always,
michelle