I’m wearing out.
I know I’m not supposed to say that because I’m a Christian and I’m supposed to have all the strength of Jesus, and I know I do, but each day is getting a little bit harder to manage, a little bit harder to pretend everything is okay.
What does that even mean – “okay?”
Someone asks me how things are going at church and I say “Oh, you know, there are hard days, but things are generally okay.” Someone asks me how I’m doing and I say, “Oh, you know, it’s not easy, but I’m hanging in there and I’m okay.”
But, okay is a cop-out.
It’s a way to wiggle around the truth. It pacifies the question, but it doesn’t actually answer it. Okay is a way to say something without actually saying anything.
And I’m wearing out from the weight of okay and all that’s not being said.
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It seems to me that church should be a place to go where the weight of things get shared and carried a little bit. I mean, I think we’re told that much in Paul’s letters to the Galatians , chapter 6.
But, my church has taken a major blow and I’m not sure that we know what “carrying” looks like anymore. We know what chaos and confusion and blame look like, but we’ve gotten bad about being quick to see God and grace and kindness in one other.
I’m grateful that I see these things in the women I meet with on Tuesday nights. We do “church” by eating and praying and praising and celebrating and enjoying one another. We do “church” by being real with one another, and listening for wisdom from one another, and opening our Bibles together. And last night, they “carried” for me by letting me share my heavy heart and immediately carrying me to the feet of Jesus in prayer in a moment when I lacked the strength to do it for myself.
And then they hugged me, not one by one, but as a group. I let myself fall into them as they wrapped their arms around me, enveloped in their love and support, knowing that they were quite literally taking my weight.
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In this season, I’m letting church take on all kinds of meanings. Sometimes I’ll find it on Sunday morning sitting in a pew listening to a sermon. But maybe in this season of brokenness and hurt and chaos, I don’t find church there every Sunday. Maybe I find it among the women of my Bible study, or at dinners with my parents, or coffee dates with my closest friends. Maybe I find it with those people of God with whom I can be honest and say that I’m not okay, but who unfailingly point me back to Him.
Maybe we find it in coming together and inviting Jesus quite simply to meet us where we are. And maybe we find it in His love and grace that envelops each of us.
And maybe, just maybe, that moves us past wearing out and just being okay.
Amber Wackford 