Today I went to church for the first time in months. My old church – where people know me and my story – and it felt like home. Thanks for that.
And that song. That was something.
I shouldn’t be surprised that every time I go (despite pain or every other reason trying to keep me home) You meet me in the seat and make yourself super apparent. When I’m there, though, I can’t help but feel like there’s unfinished business between You and I. Something under the surface – the greater part of an iceberg. Whatever it is, it always wells up in my throat and squashes my quiet attempt to sing during worship. It’s all the sudden a battle to keep composure.
In those moments, I think the deepest part of me just wants to collapse in my seat and bawl my eyes out. Snot and everything. And I don’t even know why. I mean I have theories. But I’m not sure what’s trying to get out.
In the middle of the set today, the pastor asked if anybody in the room needed healing. If they needed a miracle in their life.
It hit me in the chest and made my eyes burn. Then I huffed a little.
I have a complicated relationship with the idea of healing.
Maybe we could sit down sometime, You and I, across from each other and discuss it over a beer. Because I have a lot of questions and I’d really love to be there with You – elbows on the table – and talk things out.
I know You can heal me. And I’ve prayed for that and people have prayed over me. But I also know it might not be Your will to do so. Maybe it’s Your will that this thing stays put for now and I keep trudging through it (with You) and I keep writing. Maybe You’re going to do something unbelievable with it – as You have already. I’m on board.
So do I keep asking for healing? Do I keep praying for a child?
Or is my miracle a change in attitude? A final and resolute establishment of unwavering trust. My butt in a church seat every weekend despite my fear of that iceberg.
I don’t know.