That’s My Church

I could scribble out a list of excuses a mile long for reasons I don’t go to church anymore. But if I’m being 100% honest – because most of the time I am, especially with myself – it’s because my Dad died.

Now, is that an excuse my Dad would tolerate? Absolutely not.
But is it my truth? Yes.

Every Sunday before that, I could walk into the sanctuary and know exactly where he’d be – same pew, same spot, same quiet recognition when he saw us. After he was gone, walking in and not seeing him there left a hole I can’t quite describe. It was like my heart tripped on something invisible every time I crossed that threshold.

Some people find comfort in keeping that same rhythm – still attending church every week, sitting in the family pew (yes, that’s a thing in small churches), honoring and continuing something he not only did but instilled in you. There’s peace in that kind of faithfulness, in showing up the way he always did. And I understand that. I really do.

But for me, that pew became too heavy. It’s not that I stopped believing; it’s that grief changed how and where I could bear to meet God. We all handle our faith and our heartbreak differently, and I’m learning that’s okay.

It’s not about drifting from church or my faith.
It’s about grief changing how and where I could bear to meet God.

I was baptized in that little church.
I grew up in that little church.
I got married in that little church.
I had my kids baptized in that little church.

It’s the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and sheer happiness is averaging 60 people in the congregation on Sundays – where I learned the words to Amazing Grace, where I still know every line of the Apostles’ Creed, where I went to Sunday School and Bible School, and later taught both. I wouldn’t ever want to go anywhere else.

But sometimes, the thought of peopling feels like too much.
I need presence, not participation.

It’s not that I don’t love the people there – I do.
They’re part of me. They helped raise me, they helped raise my kids, they prayed for me, and they’ve loved me through every season. But sometimes love is exactly what makes it hard to walk through the door. That’s when I think about sneaking in the back and just sitting quietly in the parlor – unseen but surrounded.

While I say I feel just as close to God in the cab of my tractor, feeding cattle, or sitting on my quiet front porch, sometimes it really is about the building itself. It’s about the peace that the people who built that church – and still keep it standing – have left behind.

Because I think sometimes, the quiet of the places that hold the people we love is a kind of faith hug, even if they aren’t physically there.

The couch in the back parlor of the church calls to me on days when I can’t explain what I need. Grief has taught me that church doesn’t have to have four walls – but sometimes, when your heart hurts, you still need the comfort of familiar ones. you need the quiet light coming throught the stained-glass windows, the hum of the building itself. That’s the kind of peace that wraps around you like a hug when words fail.

And it’s not just about losing my dad anymore.

Life keeps happening – dogs die, hearts break, seasons change, and some days just hurt more than others. And while I can find God in my tractor cab, in my cattle barn and pasture, or on my front porch (not physically, because that would be weird), sometimes what my heart really needs is the safety of that quiet church parlor – a space to breathe, to sit still and let the ache settle down a little and tears fall.

Maybe that’s why I still think about just going over there and sitting on that couch. Not to talk or to sing hymns, but just to be there. (And maybe take a safe nap.) To let the space hold me.

I know I don’t go to church like I should, but I still call it my church.
And I love that the people there love me enough to let me.

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
Philippians 4:7