Hey, life? Are you kidding me?

Epiphany or Common Sense?

Epiphany or Common Sense? In retrospect, I'm not honestly sure. Maybe they are one in the same - synonyms - one sounding like I have a little intelligence and one stating clearly what is meant.

This is a continuation from my last blog so you might want to peruse it if this doesn't make sense . . . or it could just be that I don't make sense.

Here's the last two paragraphs from the previous post, maybe that will help the segue.

I received a Facebook comment from a friend I had gone to kindergarten through high school graduation. I hadn't talked to him since the night we received our diplomas. We were both in such a hurry to conquer the world and reach the goals that we thought would bring us happiness and perhaps a little glory . . . and contentment, maybe?

Two words on Facebook - prayers, please - have changed my life in the last six months in ways I never even allowed myself to dream could happen to me or even should happen to me.

Bruce, the friend from high school - the Facebook comment-er, took the time to respond to my request for prayers. I was having health issues. A few days later, I responded with thanks. We began talking, and I was saddened to hear that he too was dealing with things in life that are impossible to understand, come to terms with, or even believe are real when the pain is so raw. To put it mildly, we were a mixed up pair. This is not the post to share the whole story . . . maybe there never will be such a post . . . but just to get you up to speed - Bruce is the best friend I have ever had. That friendship has grown to love in so many ways. Through our ever-growing relationship I have learned to accept and give of myself, to allow myself to feel and even welcome emotions. But really, this post isn't about him . . . except that he is beyond belief wonderful . . . it's about the fact that he invited me to church.

Two years ago, I had told God I would go if someone asked me. To be honest, when Bruce first mentioned the subject I wasn't exactly doing back flips of excitement. First of all, the church was a different denomination than what I had grown up in. It was also a large church - I was used to a congregation of 150 on a good Sunday. But as I got to know Bruce better, and I allowed myself to think about it . . . even research it. But in Bruce, I could see a light; a light I missed in myself.

So . . . to church I went. Any nerves that were twittering in me dissipated when Bruce put my hand in his. The church was huge. The bulletin stated that between the two services last week, they had over 2000 people in attendance. This was definitely not my hometown church. In new situations, I either seek to take in as much knowledge about my surroundings as I can or make jokes to cover any insecurities I might feel. Well, this was church, not exactly the time for my barrage of blonde jokes.

I was paying attention to the service, but my mind was multitasking. There were so many different types of people - all ages, all races, various cultures. . . and it felt so amazingly right. At first, I was surprised some people had their phones out. Growing up, I had received many disapproving taps on my shoulder for attempting to play hangman with my brother during service. A gentleman was a few rows ahead of us. Again, I was surprised at his actions. He was drinking coffee and had a bagel. This is church, not Starbucks was my initial reaction.

However, somewhere between the welcome and the ending hymn, I realized the epiphany that who was I to judge? Why was my way of worshiping the 'correct' way? I did a self-check and wondered if someone looking at me would see my actions as disrespectful, though not my intent. After all, I had worn slacks instead of a dress. I was holding hands in church. I'm sure to someone my actions would seem out of the ordinary. I began to wonder what it would be like if we allowed ourselves to see past the distractions and actually see the person behind them. How many times do we discount someone because of first impressions that are more our own doing than theirs? How many times have our personal perceptions kept us from possibly gaining insight or friendship from someone different than ourselves?

This spurred more thoughts about societal priorities. Or at least my priorities. Had this been an invitation to a football game, I wouldn't have cared who was playing or felt the need to research the teams. Also, at a football game people are standing and cheering the majority of the game. Yet at church, we wait to be instructed as to when to stand. Is it reverence, habit, or following? I'm not sure. As I contemplated this - why we love God so thoroughly but praise and honor him so differently - I had an 'aha' moment and those thoughts didn't matter any more. I had spent the last twenty-five years searching for a church for me - one like the one I grew up in, that I was accustom to. And that was the problem - me, I. This would never be MY church, no matter how at home I felt. A place of worship is God's church. I had searched for what I needed not what God needed from me. I had embraced differences and distractions rather than the purpose of gathering together in His name. I had claimed to have searched for the right church. . . finally, my eyes were opened that there are no wrong churches. Sure, some are better fits to different people, but as I sat there with Bruce's fingers intertwined in mine, mouthing the words to an unfamiliar hymn, while secretly wishing I had thought to bring coffee - I felt. No that isn't a typo. For the first time in so long, I felt. I wasn't numb; I wasn't hiding; I wasn't looking for an opportunity to run. I felt emotions - some amazing, others slightly terrifying, but it was such a relief to know that I still had the capacity to actually feel. My hand tightened around Bruce's; I smiled at the man with his cell phone out, and it was clear to me that though different, God had made us all - none better than the other. And if I chose to let those differences put me off, the only thing I was doing was cheating myself of life's experiences.

I don't remember the preacher's final prayer. My head was bowed; my eyes closed, but my thoughts and prayer were my own. Through Bruce, God had brought me home to the church. I thanked Him. I thanked God for showing me their was more life to live and it was long past time for me to live again, not merely exist. Not only was my heart opened, but my eyes saw the blessings before me.

This happened several weeks ago, and I recognize that it is a journey not a mere occurrence. Tomorrow, I will return to God's church and praise Him while holding Bruce's hand - I might go out on a limb and wear a dress though, who knows - but I will be open, my walls torn down, and I will live, feel, and love. I will never have all the answers, but I will know where to search and that I am worthy of God's answers.

Love,
Audra