church-related heart vomit

I've been to church less than a handful of times in the last year.

In a lot of ways, it feels like that's where it started. We moved to Fort Collins to help with a church plant. We met her through that church plant because they led worship together.

Still cringing at that one.

I struggled a lot with church even before everything happened. When I think about it, going to church was hard for me for most of my marriage. I had a lot of anxiety about going, although I could never really pinpoint a discernible source. All of the fears I had about being inferior and inadequate felt magnified there. I was so bound by this crippling insecurity and self-consciousness that I couldn't even sit in a room full of (mostly) strangers without coming out of my skin the whole time. It certainly didn't help that in the same environment where I was constantly fighting to keep the panic at bay, my husband thrived. Being the introverted, anxiety-prone wife of an extroverted, outgoing worship leader was hard. Really hard. I constantly felt like a failure as a wife and as a Christian (a word I have come to seriously abhor; but more on that another time). I so desperately wanted to be supportive of him in this role, but it was so hard to be when I hated how I felt so much that I could barely make it through a service.

A lot of the time I left early. Then I stopped going altogether.

Then I found out about the affair. And still, almost a year and a half later, I can't seem to set foot in any church without falling apart. (My aversion isn't limited to a location, it seems).

Let me be clear: I don't blame the church. I never have. I don't blame anyone other than the two people involved. My church aversion started before the affair did, although I've never believed that's a coincidence. I'm also very aware that I'm no one's responsibility. I can speculate and do my best to be objective and give the benefit of the doubt when it comes to afterward. I'll be the first one to tell you that there is no good way to navigate or react to something like this. There is no right thing to say. Unfortunately, from where I'm standing, silence from the church felt like the wrong way and the wrong thing. To be blunt, I've struggled with taking offense and feeling bitter because of that silence; more things to add to my already exhaustive list of feelings to process.

I just have no desire to go to church, which I struggle with. Aren't you supposed to "hit rock bottom and have no where left to turn but Jesus?" That didn't happen for me. When I hit rock bottom, I didn't have the mental, emotional, or spiritual capacity to do anything but feel pain. It confused me for a long time, because somewhere along the line I started believing that if/when I reached that point, I would want to "run to Jesus." But I didn't. There wasn't space.

All along, I've felt this self-imposed pressure to hurry up and get there; to hurry up and want to go to church and have one of those Christian-esque relationships with God again. It got to the point where I was feeling seriously stressed out by it. This is a thing I do: I set these idealized expectations for myself, and then proceed to feel like a failure when the reality of where I'm at doesn't meet them. But I'm learning how to be honest with myself and about myself; so at the present time, church is off the table. Making that decision felt like a huge weight was lifted; I'm giving myself permission to just be where I'm at and let that be okay. It doesn't mean it's off the table forever; I'm just sparing myself the additional "Christian guilt" for the time being.

Something that has kind of amazed me through all of this is that I still believe all the same basic things I always have. I still have a relationship with God, although it looks much different now than it ever has. Looking back, even to the very beginning when I didn't have the space to be intentional about prayer, or even just acknowledging Him, Jesus has been this subtle undercurrent. This pulse. I feel more connected to Him than I ever have before. It's hard to assign words to; but then again, He doesn't need my words.

I keep coming back to a journal entry I made last year, about two weeks after finding out about the affair. I've referenced it before:

I am reminded this morning, as I stand in the ocean and feel its power and listen to its roar, that God is bigger than my pain. I am also reminded of the beautiful truth that He knows the depth and magnitude of my pain, and that He is feeling it with me. While knowing this does not lessen the sting, it helps put my aching, restless heart at peace.

I am reminded that He delights in me. That He knows every inch of my wild and desperate heart and He delights in me, in all the ways I've always longed to be delighted in. He knows me in all the ways I've always longed to be known. For Him, I am enough.

I am also reminded that He doesn't need my words. He sees and knows my every thought, every feeling, every fear, every wish, every hope. For now, perhaps, it is enough to simply be broken in His presence and to know that I am understood. (09.09.2016)

Something huge shifted when I wrote this. For the first time, things that I had been trying for years to convince myself of finally felt true. I wasn't just writing the words, I was believing them. It felt like permission to be in it and feel it, whatever that looks like; permission to have my own process. It felt like validation. It felt like grace.

Ever since then, I've felt like I'm on a totally different wavelength. It feels fresh and unhindered and is not at all what I expected. But it's good.

I am in no way saying that church is bad or unnecessary, and I'm not championing the concept of a church hiatus. This is just where I'm at. My heart needed to be let off the hook for a while. I spent most of my life under the delusion that there is a template, a formula, a checklist. Understanding that there isn't is allowing me to experience grace in ways and in places I never have before. I'm slowly beginning to understand exactly how much I need it; every second of every day, in all my messy, broken places.

And I'm so grateful.