It was seven years ago today that I came home to those words in a letter on my kitchen table. I fell to my knees trying to stop the world from turning upside down. But it still did. The life I had planned, the design I had made still imploded on itself, whether I liked it or not. Which, for the record, I did not ONE BIT.
I spent months in a haze, I spent years in therapy. I worried myself to panic attacks and loss of sleep. My boy. I never wanted him to be from a broken home. How will he cope? Will he be scarred for life? Will he become some depressed or angry teenager? I just didn't know.
It was in this dark time that I found a church family. But to fully grasp this I have to explain... I had no desire to have a church family. I wasn't a Christian, I wasn't a Bible thumper, I WAS NOT one of them.
But.....I was a stay at home mom who had no roots in this community. I was 300+ miles from my closest family. I was scared and alone.
So one day I told the boy we were going to go to church. He was ten... and didn't even know what church really was. He of course thought me nuts. But he was ten and had to go with me. We started at a building near our house, a very non-churchy building. No steeples, no crosses or dead Jesus on the wall. I had every intention of still hating it, but now I can say we tried! And now seven years later we are still there. These crazy church people are family.
When the boy ended up in the hospital they were the first people there and in large numbers. The little waiting room was wall to wall with them. When the ambulance rolled into the ER...they were there. When the nurse came out to talk to me while he was being admitted, she stepped into the waiting room and asked who was there for the boy... they said we all are.
The boy hasn't felt much like being up on Sundays since his hospital stay so he has missed a lot of "church." The people don't care, they love him anyway. They ask about him. They care. We are home. A home I never knew I even wanted. One I may not have fully realized until now.
So one day I told the boy we were going to go to church. He was ten... and didn't even know what church really was. He of course thought me nuts. But he was ten and had to go with me. We started at a building near our house, a very non-churchy building. No steeples, no crosses or dead Jesus on the wall. I had every intention of still hating it, but now I can say we tried! And now seven years later we are still there. These crazy church people are family.
When the boy ended up in the hospital they were the first people there and in large numbers. The little waiting room was wall to wall with them. When the ambulance rolled into the ER...they were there. When the nurse came out to talk to me while he was being admitted, she stepped into the waiting room and asked who was there for the boy... they said we all are.
The boy hasn't felt much like being up on Sundays since his hospital stay so he has missed a lot of "church." The people don't care, they love him anyway. They ask about him. They care. We are home. A home I never knew I even wanted. One I may not have fully realized until now.
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