I miss it

What is it, you might ask?

Church. There, I said it. I miss going to church.

When I was growing up, we were one of those families who were in church whenever the doors were open. So many of my memories are steeped in the church that it's hard to think of one that isn't. There was church pageants, vacation bible school, Sunday school songs, etc. I was indoctrinated before I was weened from formula.

God is... was... someone I turned to when things were rough. And frequently, things were rough. Daddy's illness, money troubles, things that I'm not sure little children should know about clouded my view for years. God was my rock, my comfort, my port in the storm. But even at that age, I had trouble believing fully in Him. I can remember seeing my friends "getting blessed" during services and I felt nothing and I was so jealous of them that I actually stuck my fingers in my eyes to make myself cry.

How lame is that?

I turned to my church family as one would to their blood family. My memories are full of the stereotypical Southern church services where we'd sing in stuffy sanctuaries - and they all smelled the same way - old wood, pledge, and some unexplained smell that can only be found in old churches. We'd fan ourselves with these large cardboard fans that came from one of the local funeral homes and usually had a picture of Jesus knocking on a wooden door or praying in Gethsemane. Then there would be table after table of foods, made by good, Christian women. And there'd be a separate table just for desserts. I can still feel the sting of getting my legs pinched on those folding wooden chairs and the smell of the coffee in the percolator.

Church to me was more than a service, more than an expression of my faith. It was my extended family. Which is why, years later, when certain things happened that changed how I saw my "family" that it made so painful to leave, but even more painful to stay.

That was nearly 15 years ago. And I miss it.

I miss the music, the songs, hearing songs like, "He Touched Me" or "It is Well" and the feeling in my heart when I'd sing them. I miss the lump in my throat, the quiver in my voice as I sing, "How Great Thou Art". I miss the sermons, of hearing someone else's take on scripture. I miss the fellowship, the smiles. I miss it all. Well, most of it.

See, when this feeling hits, this feeling that I miss it, then I remember all the reasons I left it. Then I fight with myself over missing it. I also fear, that even if I did start going to church, that I'd never find what I was missing.

Now there's Logan to think of. I want him to have my memories. Well most of them. I dont want him sitting in VBS and watching a movie about the end of the world and be too afraid to sleep or afraid that the rapture has happened and he's missed it when I dont answer his call. Those are other things I dont miss.

I wonder if there's a missing church support group?

Giving this a try

Not sure who'll be interested enough to read one of my blogs or if I want anyone to read it. I just see so many and wonder if I shouldnt be using it as an outlet.

This weekend, I thought I lost my son.

My son, my miracle, so many ways to rip out my heart. First, my sitter writes me to say that she's noticed my son running into walls and tripping over things. Immediately, I'm thinking the worst - that some nervous system disorder was robbing my son of his health at just 15 months. My husband told me that ever since reading the sitter's note, I've used the words "perfect son" more than once and mostly in the context of loving him even if he werent our "perfect son" anymore. We have a doctor's appointment on Wednesday and hopefully everything can be laid to rest as we havent seen him doing anything like that over the weekend.

The second heart-stopping moment was at the beach. My son would not let us take him in the water, well not by carrying him in, but I got him playing at the water's edge. He was so happy finding rocks and bringing them in his little hand to "wash" them in the water, running away from the tiny waves lapping at the edge. Then he saw his father, who was standing waist deep. Our son charged into the water and made it until it was about chest deep before I could get to him. Before I could get a grip on his suit though, a wave knocked his legs out from under him and he went under, face first. I pulled him from the water but in that slow motion of panic, I saw him ebb away first and his arms and legs dangling at his sides. He didnt panic, he just waited for Mama to get him. I pulled him up and out of the water, expecting to be greeted with sputtering and crying - his normal reaction to water in the face - but he just looked up at his dad and laughed. His father looked at me with a look that read, "How did you let that happen??" He neednt have accused me of anything, I was already torturing myself with what might have happened.

But now it's Monday night and we're back to our routine. Mama and baby had a bath together where we played like the water babies we are. Daddy threw the toys that "escaped" the tub back into the water while our son laughed true belly laughs. Then while daddy showered, I tried to nurse our son to sleep, but he was more interested in talking to "Nana" on the phone. Soon this night will be over as we slip into dream land.

I never knew it was like this - motherhood. I knew there was love. I knew there was unconditional love. But I never knew there was this madness, this frustration when we cant communicate, frustration when he doesnt do what I think he should be doing, this wondering how my mother survived it at all and... the love. This love that washes all that other crap away. One look at his smile or when he reaches up to me and says, "Mom-my"... and all I can do is thank God that I've been given this chance and pray I dont mess him up.