A crisis of church

Recently, my church split up in to two services. Great news for them, as it highlights their growth in just over three years of existence.

But they moved my service time. By half an hour.

OK, look, I realize this isn't earth-shattering. But that 30-minute loss meant getting home at 12:30 instead of noon, which meant pulling in at just the same time as my husband was getting off work. I couldn't have lunch ready for him when he walked in the door anymore. I didn't have that 30 minutes after church sitting on the couch, napping lightly, before he got home. I only had 1 1/2 before work instead of 2 hours.

I felt the loss of that half hour deeply, and I resented it.

So I've been hit-and-miss at church since. I've managed to drag myself there about every other week since the switch. The problem is, having church start at 11 meant I never had an "I overslept" excuse like I did sometimes for the 10:30 start. I'm always awake in time to be dressed and out the door by 11. So I would lay in bed, starring at the cat, who I knew was looking at me in judgment, until the clock ticked just past the point that I could still make it if I hustled.


Last week, I worked for several days to convince myself it was OK to skip this week, too, after skipping last week because I felt like I needed to lay in bed and read comic books, in order to nurture the small boy growing within me.

Look, I told myself. It's not your fault. They just aren't meeting your needs. That's right! I agreed. They barely gave that evening service a chance before throwing in the towel. And they're always changing the small groups, so I never actually meet anybody. And this time we didn't even get signed up for one that worked with our schedule, so we didn't get to go. And that small-group format totally doesn't work for us, anyway, because they talk about what he learned in church and if you didn't go, you have no idea what's going on.

By the end of the conversation, I had nearly talked myself into quitting and finding a new church.

I imagined explaining my decision to T.J.: They just aren't feeding me the way I need! I imagined him looking at me like I was insane, because we love our church, and we love our pastors and it makes him crazy that I get to go and he has to work.

This morning, I forced myself to get up at 7:30 and go to the 9 a.m. service. I was a total martyr about it in my head. This is too early! I worked until midnight! My heartburn kept me up until 1! I had to get up three times to pee!

But I knew. I knew if I didn't go at 9, I wasn't going. 11 a.m. had become a mental block. So I went. And worshiped. And listened to the sermon. And got home by 10:30, whereupon I took an hour and a half nap with the cat, and got up in time to have lunch ready before T.J. got home from work. And I still had a full two hours to enjoy his company before I had to go in to work myself.

And you know, that 9 a.m. service is pretty sweet.

And I hadn't realized how empty my little spiritual cup had become during my on-again, off-again new-church-time resentment.

At the end of the day, my church is feeding me -- I'm the one that's been choosing not to come to the table and eat.