Thin Air, High Hope

I skipped church today so I could worship.

I’ve had a complicated relationship with church for a number of years now. I should clarify that I don’t mean church as people, but rather some of the culture that can surround it. I don’t want to throw my church under the bus. Honestly, I don’t want to throw any church under the bus.

I know the Sunday morning service, with its customary songs, lesson, and offering, comforts many people. I also know many amazing people who pour their hearts into creating a Sunday morning experience that resonates with those who walk through the door. I appreciate both the effort and the intent.

But increasingly, I find church to be a noisy place.

I’ve spent the past few decades within a particular church culture that has often emphasized productivity: praying harder, evangelizing more, staying positive, becoming more and more certain. For someone who already tends toward an overactive conscience, this culture can make faith feel less like something beautiful to live within and more like a measure of whether I am doing enough.

This morning, I just couldn’t do it. In a space where I had grown accustomed to showing up ready to engage, encourage, serve, or somehow give something of myself, I just didn’t feel like I had much to give today.

It has been a heavier week. Several friends I love dearly are carrying incredibly painful situations. The new stage of nearly empty nesting has left me slightly disoriented, while classes and a new role have begun. The week ended with yesterday leaving me with that “ugh” feeling of having stuck my foot in my mouth one too many times. Add in some physical struggles and a workload that has felt increasingly overwhelming, and I woke up this morning feeling depleted, restless, and craving quiet.

So, as my husband and daughter headed out to church, I headed out into nature.

Of course, years of churchgoing made sure to add a little guilt to that decision.

But as I wandered through the cypress trees and watched sunlight filter through dew-covered leaves, I felt stillness return. I prayed through my friends and talked with God about things weighing on my mind, but I kept getting distracted by moments of beauty.

Dark spaces in the trees with tiny points of sunlight piercing the dense canopy.
Bright white birds against murky water.
Tiny droplets catching the morning light.

And then a small, white-haired woman stopped me. She excitedly asked if I had seen the flowers. She told me they were moonlight flowers, and that they would disappear as soon as the sun reached them. If I wanted to see them, I needed to hurry.

I rushed back the way I had come and there they were.

Something about that exchange felt slightly sacred. A stranger was so delighted by something beautiful that she needed to make sure I didn’t miss it.

I’ve spoken before about my longing for church to be a community that looks outside itself, operating less from fear of what is outside and more from a desire to live out the beauty of Jesus in community with the world around it. And there, on a path through the cypress trees, a stranger offered me a tiny glimpse of that. She had found something beautiful, and her instinct was to turn to someone she didn’t know and say, essentially, Come see this. I don’t want you to miss it.

Nothing had been required of me to receive something so beautiful. There was only shared awe and appreciation of those delicate white flowers. And as I felt a sense of mutual appreciation and connection in that moment, I couldn’t help but think, if this isn’t worship, what is?

I still believe deeply in community and in the importance of people gathering together in faith. But even within the healthiest of communities, I may once again find the need to skip a Sunday service and go worship as I did this morning.

• The first photo is the moonflower! The picture doesnt really capture it because it was across the water. So pretty though!
• The second photo again doesn’t quite capture the beauty of the morning, but so peaceful!
• I don’t understand how they stay so white while in the muck and the mire!
• The water was like a mirror…perfectly still.