I sat in the early service Sunday morning and I felt good. My usual defensive posture wasn’t entirely gone, but it felt distant. The liturgical reading for World Communion was taken from a poem, and I loved the words. Even my son’s teenage I-Don’t-Want-To-Be-Here slouch felt normal.
As I wrote in my journal and listened to my husband preach, I realized this makes two Sundays in a row that I have felt safe in church. Granted, both of these Sundays involved my husband giving the sermon, but they were at two different churches. The first one was a little country church that felt so much like home. I couldn’t help but relax there. Every hymn was familiar, lyrics I grew up singing from the pages of a red Baptist hymnal.
I don’t think the hymns or the location or even my husband made the biggest difference though.
I think the change began with confession.
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