Ever since she moved into my house, I started to pray for her differently. It became rare that I would pray for her salvation, or healing, instead I spent my time crying out to God to give me patience; give me love. I never really like going on walks with her, at time she would try to hold my hand, or take my arm, and I just found it more than awkward.
Walking was worse in the winter. I could side across the ice with no problem. But that frightened her, it took her much time to walk down the side walk. I didn’t like always being told to slow down; ordered not to slide. I was doing okay.
This morning started before the walk to church. I was in my room, reading the Bible when she came in interrupting. I answered her questions quickly, just hoping she would leave. And she would leave, and come back too. She could tell I was being short with her. She didn’t like it. As she left I had to question what had I done. There I was, putting my alone time, this ritual up as a blockade. I made it more important than the second greatest commandment, Love people.
Maybe walking to Church was a bad idea. Anyhow, the whole way there I was dreading it. I didn’t like her coming to Church with me. Often times she would go with my mom or my sister, but my mom was working, and my sister out of town. I remembered the times before, having her at church, trying to distance my self from her, mostly from her touch. But I was struck by the familiarity of it all, confronted by something not only which I read, but that I wrote In a fictional story “I hate it, I hate how the church is today. I wish it could be a place where people might go and really feel God's presence, and feel loved. I wish it were a place of selfless people first there to serve God, then others. I wish God was real to the people at church… I'm sorry, I shouldn't of done that this morning, I mean... it was stupid of me. I knew it was what they were thinking… can't believe I did that.” and “No, God wasn't at church! Even you became less caring there, and more concerned about what others were thinking.” And I believe that must be how she felt coming to church with me those days.
I wish I could say today was better, different from those times in the past, but it wasn’t. If anything it was worse, I was aware that being in Church was maybe, if anything a reason to be more caring, and most definitely not less. I was aware I didn’t need to care about what others thought. I had read the story of becoming less caring at Church, and I certainly didn’t want anything to do with that. Yet I hate being told what to do. I didn’t stand during worship, and when she told me to stand I wanted to so much less. I sat struggling with this idea of love, and just wanting it to be easy. She would place he hand on my arm, or my leg, and I would sit uncomfortably until I could take it no longer. I had to move. I would search for a reason, like taking off my coat, but I could only take off my coat once. I struggled with this, not even knowing why it bothered me so much. But it angered me, tore me to pieces; kept me on the verge of tears. Then, when I did decide to stand, placing my hands on the pew in front of me, it was only moments before her hand was on mine. I tried to be okay with it, acting like nothing happened. But I hated it, I couldn’t stand it. I removed my hand, and though she tried to hold it I refused. I sat back down, trying to get as far away from her as possible. When I got home I wrote but four short lines in my journal. “God I failed at church… why is that? When reading my Bible, while at Church, I have no patience for her, no allotment for her awkwardness.” I wasn’t sure of what allotment meant, but it was the best word I could come up with. I asked for God’s forgiveness, I had failed indeed. Then I read the end of the story I had written; the part with the trip to church, the climax, the conclusion. But I started far enough before that, so I was distracted my mind put to ease rather than sent on a guilt trip.
We all make mistakes. We are all called to grace, and I am thankful for that grace. Tonight I went to another church. Before communion this was read: “My dear children, I write this to you so that you will not sin. But if anybody does sin, we have one who speaks to the Father in our defense—Jesus Christ, the Righteous One. He is the atoning sacrifice for our sins, and not only for ours but also for the sins of the whole world.” I was so happy for this grace so thankful for what God had done so ready to partake in communion. I was so aware of my short comings that I was so ready to accept the help, to accept grace. I just can’t make it on my own.
Walking was worse in the winter. I could side across the ice with no problem. But that frightened her, it took her much time to walk down the side walk. I didn’t like always being told to slow down; ordered not to slide. I was doing okay.
This morning started before the walk to church. I was in my room, reading the Bible when she came in interrupting. I answered her questions quickly, just hoping she would leave. And she would leave, and come back too. She could tell I was being short with her. She didn’t like it. As she left I had to question what had I done. There I was, putting my alone time, this ritual up as a blockade. I made it more important than the second greatest commandment, Love people.
Maybe walking to Church was a bad idea. Anyhow, the whole way there I was dreading it. I didn’t like her coming to Church with me. Often times she would go with my mom or my sister, but my mom was working, and my sister out of town. I remembered the times before, having her at church, trying to distance my self from her, mostly from her touch. But I was struck by the familiarity of it all, confronted by something not only which I read, but that I wrote In a fictional story “I hate it, I hate how the church is today. I wish it could be a place where people might go and really feel God's presence, and feel loved. I wish it were a place of selfless people first there to serve God, then others. I wish God was real to the people at church… I'm sorry, I shouldn't of done that this morning, I mean... it was stupid of me. I knew it was what they were thinking… can't believe I did that.” and “No, God wasn't at church! Even you became less caring there, and more concerned about what others were thinking.” And I believe that must be how she felt coming to church with me those days.
I wish I could say today was better, different from those times in the past, but it wasn’t. If anything it was worse, I was aware that being in Church was maybe, if anything a reason to be more caring, and most definitely not less. I was aware I didn’t need to care about what others thought. I had read the story of becoming less caring at Church, and I certainly didn’t want anything to do with that. Yet I hate being told what to do. I didn’t stand during worship, and when she told me to stand I wanted to so much less. I sat struggling with this idea of love, and just wanting it to be easy. She would place he hand on my arm, or my leg, and I would sit uncomfortably until I could take it no longer. I had to move. I would search for a reason, like taking off my coat, but I could only take off my coat once. I struggled with this, not even knowing why it bothered me so much. But it angered me, tore me to pieces; kept me on the verge of tears. Then, when I did decide to stand, placing my hands on the pew in front of me, it was only moments before her hand was on mine. I tried to be okay with it, acting like nothing happened. But I hated it, I couldn’t stand it. I removed my hand, and though she tried to hold it I refused. I sat back down, trying to get as far away from her as possible. When I got home I wrote but four short lines in my journal. “God I failed at church… why is that? When reading my Bible, while at Church, I have no patience for her, no allotment for her awkwardness.” I wasn’t sure of what allotment meant, but it was the best word I could come up with. I asked for God’s forgiveness, I had failed indeed. Then I read the end of the story I had written; the part with the trip to church, the climax, the conclusion. But I started far enough before that, so I was distracted my mind put to ease rather than sent on a guilt trip.
We all make mistakes. We are all called to grace, and I am thankful for that grace. Tonight I went to another church. Before communion this was read: “My dear children, I write this to you so that you will not sin. But if anybody does sin, we have one who speaks to the Father in our defense—Jesus Christ, the Righteous One. He is the atoning sacrifice for our sins, and not only for ours but also for the sins of the whole world.” I was so happy for this grace so thankful for what God had done so ready to partake in communion. I was so aware of my short comings that I was so ready to accept the help, to accept grace. I just can’t make it on my own.
