By the time I found myself celebrating my twenty-sixth birthday several weeks before moving to Spokane, I didn't really know what Christianity or God looked like to me anymore. Days before said birthday, I had felt God meet me there on that mountain top, an (almost) lifelong friend singing my Grandmother's favorite hymn, my sibling's voice meeting mine to sing "All I hath needed thy hand hath provided, Great is thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!" in front of 109 of my favorite people. But was that God, or was that the God of circumstances I was singing to? Did I believe that the God who created this perfect pocket of joy overlooking the rolling hills of Alleghany County was the same God who allowed our Porter's first sonogram to be filled with the sound of my heartbreaking into a million tiny pieces to fill the place where Porter's silent heart was? The truth is by twenty-six my idea of God was clouded by my idea of church, my idea of my own identity, and my years of falling away from faith.
Twenty-six years is a lot of time to cover and it is not the main point of the story I want to tell today so I will make it quick. Years of going to evangelical churches had led me to believe that I would know God by a feeling. I don't know if anyone actually told me this, but church and faith became some sort of high for me. You went to church on Sunday. You felt the Holy Spirit move. You talked in the Community Hall for an hour after the service. You listened to some worship music and sent up some prayers during the week. I am sure this is not everyone's experiences in the churches I attended but it was mine. As I grew more socially liberal, all I could hear coming from many pulpits was hate speech. They were not biblical convictions, of which my understanding of the Gospel led me to have many, but rather speech that excluded those whom I loved, those whom I ran into in my college hallways, those that I had the power to invite in.
I would say I never officially stepped away from my faith but the next six years were spent in a place where I would only accept that God existed, show up sometimes on Sunday when I wasn't hung over, but didn't want to put anymore work into it than that. When I finally listened enough to hear God again, it was in the form of the parents of a sweet Toddler in my classroom. They extended an invitation via Facebook for anyone to join them at church. Jim and I had a fight the night before and church seemed the place I would feel met. Jim not wanting me to leave in the midst of an unresolved fight joined, attending a non-denominational church for the first time. From the moment we stepped in the door we felt welcomed. The congregation was socioeconomically and racially diverse. The church had a funny, dynamic pastor. I would've paid just to get in for the worship. Each week we walked away with a tidy list of how to grow in faith and love and would spend hours at breakfast talking about what all of this meant in our lives. Even now when I see the church's updates pop up on my Facebook feed, my heart feels like the church is a part of me, and I, a part of it. Do you see how many times I've said church here and how few times I've said God or Jesus? It took me almost two years of being removed from the church to finally give it the title of following "Oprah Christianity". I love that church. I love the people I have met there and that they guided us through our time as an engaged couple, but it was like going to a Ted Talk with a little Jesus cherry on top.
Seven weeks after arriving in Spokane I was 40 weeks pregnant and had not spoken to anyone but Jim in all that time. Sitting in Starbucks I saw a man sitting across from me in a Seahawks jersey. Sports. I could do this.
"Are the Seahawks going to be on good this year?"
It was a simple question that led to us entering in to a messy and beautiful life that is still messy and beautiful. You see, Aaron, is the Lead Deacon at Soma Spokane. That day rather than turn back to his work, Aaron sat and listened to the story of how I landed in Spokane 33 weeks pregnant. Not only did Aaron listen but he handed me his card and asked us to come to dinner at his Missional Community. 41 weeks pregnant we arrived at Missional Community to enjoy a meal with 3 families of strangers. We weren't sure what we were walking into, or even what the point of the community was as we sat, talking and eating (If you're interested in what I'm talking about http://somaspokane.org/gatherings/missional-communities/). What I did know is there was something so attractive about the open arms of the body of Christ. One week later when Porter was born and we found ourselves alone in a NICU room, these people who had only known us a week, reached out and asked what they could do. Porter needed someone other than us cheering him on and so we asked that they come, that they show up and hold him, giving him love and hope. These people, these sweet families, they were the outward expression of God's love for us.
I would love to tell you that my story from there was one of joy and love in God who was good but it was much uglier than that. As I fell into my depression and rage, these people who we did life with were not spared. Many days I showed up to events and was combative, rude, and found things to criticize. Even in my brokenness, they met me. They talked with us about our struggles trying to get to the bottom of it all and showing up at my house unannounced when they knew I hadn't showered in days and felt as though I was drowning. Their faithfulness was God's pursuing of my heart, but yet, I didn't see it.
For almost two years we went through this pattern. I showed up. I kept on my masks but I showed up. There was something so undeniable attractive about being in a church where you had your people who knew your mess and your story. In January 2016, our Missional Community had grown too large and so we decided to multiple. When the shake out happened, the Simon family moved with Aaron and his wife, and in that moment I knew if we were going to start this Missional Community thing fresh that I was going to have to actually commit. I had to take my toe out of the water and just dive. My commitment was to forget everything that had got mudded in the last 20 years of being a Christian and come to the table with nothing to give but to want to know Jesus more.
One year later that humbling and willingness to sacrifice has been life changing. I have been met by a God who loves me and is for me. A God who has given me grace upon grace. A God that says there's freedom to fail. A God who calls me loved, worthy, wanted, seen and known. A God who has invited me to join in this beautiful family of his and be messy. There are no more masks that I can wear that will make me better than what He's already created me to be. I have learned what community looks like. What truly loving and walking with people looks like. It is not perfect. It's messy and it's hurtful. It's discipleship and it's deep relationship.
My favorite Jesus story is the one that started that day in the coffee shop. As my life imploded several months ago I felt worthless, unloved, replaced and as I came with my tears and my brokenness to Aaron and Megan's table they said "We desire for you to live with us." There were so many things they could have said to me that night at the table but their word for me was that not just they, but that God desired to meet me, in the midst of my rejection. Right now I am having a lot of trouble not taking one day at a time. I continue to look at the destruction that will be left in a week, in a month, in a year. The truth is that 3 years ago when I spoke to Aaron at a coffee shop, I would never have predicted that I would live in his home when I had no other options. But God. God knew. He provided for me and continues to provide for my in so many little and big ways. He has set my path.
Now, on the cusp of my thirtieth birthday, I am only beginning to understand who God is. In the midst of all the heartbreak and pain associated with Spokane, I have met God here, and that, that makes the city the most beautiful part of my story.
