Last night I was on a mission. I was going to find our church.
I spent quite a good bit of time online comparing websites of local churches. Church doctrines and mission statements. I also spent a good deal of time researching the different denominations, trying to see what church would best suit my beliefs and our family. Ultimately, I know we just have to go out and try a few different churches to see what feels right. But part of me hoped to find one online, fall in love with it, and feel at home before we even stepped foot into the building. If I'm going to be brutally honest, I asked God to leave me a note on my kitchen counter to tell me where to go...
But neither of those things happened. I now have a few in mind to try, starting next weekend, but I'm still not sure. And I think that's ok. It's a process.
But last night, I had worked myself into a frenzy of finding the church. It seemed so necessary, and so urgent.
This morning, it didn't seem so urgent. This morning what seemed urgent was all of us getting outside to breathe some fresh air. Salt air. I woke up remembering words and pictures that friends have recently posted about waves, rocks, salt air breezes and gusts. I had mentioned a few days ago to Lucas that I wanted to take the kids to the beach. {I'm omitting the part where he looked at me like I had three heads and thought I was a lunatic for wanting to brave the beach with the kids in the winter... } There's one near us that's a little protected from the elements, and there is nothing better for the soul than a walk on the beach. In any season.
So we went.
We walked, picked up rocks and seashells, smelled the salt air and felt the sand crunch under our winter boots. We took deep breaths and held hands. We walked together, separately, then together again when Fynn called hey, wait up! or wait for me! Paige rode on her daddy's shoulders, pointed at seagulls and directed where his feet took them. It was one of those beautiful chilly Sunday mornings that you can't anticipate. They just happen.
Years and years ago I attended a Congregational church with my father. I sang in the choir {shocking... my kids will one day laugh their heads off if they find out!} There was one church member, I think her name was Marion, but I can't be sure. I forget how the topic came up, but I remember this vividly. We were standing in the basement meeting room, dawning our red choir robes that smelled of moth balls and whoever wore it the previous week, when she touched my arm and asked me to remember something. God hears you no matter where you pray, no matter where you worship.
That's the key. My search for a church, for a community to worship in, will happen. And I'm guessing it will be fruitful. But ultimately, He hears me. Whether it's on a beach, in our little two bedroom apartment, or in a gigantic church. He hears me.
