God Comes to Us

Something very beautiful happened this morning at church. Something I will never forget.

This weekend, Laura and I were by ourselves while Joey was in the mountains with a couple of friends from work. I debated going to church this morning because it’s always more complicated and messy when I try to get us both fed, dressed, and out the door in enough time to get a morning nap in on the 30 minute drive there.

But we made it with a 20 minute nap in and enough time to change her out of a massive blowout in the trunk of my Subaru before heading inside. Success!

I dropped Laura off in the nursery and walked into the sanctuary. It was already packed. I sat in the middle of the back rows after wiggling my way through people on the side of the pew.

I was refreshed to be here in this place. Especially in the midst of all the thoughts lately telling me versions of “not enough.” Even this morning the inner critic was pulling hard at my attention.

I sat up straight determined to keep my focus here, asking God to hold my attention. I smiled at a couple to my left and right. I knew I belonged here and I was grateful for this place. We have been a member of this beloved church, Church of the Apostles, for almost 8 years. 

It was Trinity Sunday. I listened intently to the Homily and spoke the liturgy with intention. Towards the end of the service I went back down to the nursery to get Laura. I fed her, changed her diaper, and walked back into the sanctuary and took my place again in the back row. The couple beside me smiled again as they looked at Laura. Joy shone all over her face. I beamed too.

This morning I am grateful for her. How she encourages me to lean into the truth. Instead of listening to the voices of shame, of the “not enough’s,” I am determined to model the grace of the Father so she will learn this, too.

It’s time to take communion, and we both walk up to the front of the sanctuary. I kneel down at the altar, waiting for my bread and wine. In the Anglican tradition, adults and youth take the bread and wine, and babies and young children have the opportunity to receive a blessing by the priest.

I accept my bread and wine from one of the deacons. I eat and drink from the cup. The deacon encourages me to wait for Father Barr, our priest, to come by for Laura’s blessing, since only the priests can facilitate this.

I wait here for a few moments with Laura in my arms. We are kneeling together at the front of the church and everyone else around me has left. They have returned to their seats. We’re the only ones up here. I notice Father Barr several feet away on the other side of the altar. It looked like he was finished and didn’t see us. I wasn’t sure if I should stay or leave.

The thoughts coming in at that moment were too quick for me: “Don’t be an inconvenience by staying here too long. He’s busy and you already lost your chance and everyone around you has already left.” I feel a prick of anxiety, not wanting Laura to get fussy and make a show while we’re up here. So I did what I always do when I get uncomfortable: I fled. I “fled” back to my pew with my head down.

For me, it wasn’t just about the blessing itself or about feeling uncomfortable at the altar. It was more about feeling worthy enough to sit there, taking up time and space, risking Laura’s cries and shouts and the attention this might bring, and asking for what I wanted for my daughter. It wasn’t just about the blessing, it was more than that. And I felt like I had failed… again.

“Why didn’t you stay?” I asked myself as I was walking back to the pew. Shame reared its head. “Laura just missed the chance to receive the blessing because you got uncomfortable. You’re such a bad mom.” Again, the “not enough’s” flooding in like ants.

I shake away the voices as best I can. I hold Laura tight and I start singing the hymn the congregation is singing around me. My voice feels small.

I’m trying to figure out what just happened. None of this is really about what happened on the outside. Anyone who saw me wouldn’t have caught on. To them, I was just a mom with her daughter who simply left the altar before receiving the blessing. Nothing more. Right?

But no, it was more complicated than that. It was about missing out on something I wanted for my daughter because I didn’t want to be an “inconvenience.” And then being annoyed for thinking this at all. For having these insecurities that I shouldn’t keep struggling with. For letting them impact my daughter, as silly as all this was.

As I’m singing, still fighting back shame, I look up and I see Father Barr walking down the aisle towards the back of the church.

He walks towards us now coming closer and closer.

And then he stops at the very back row and walks behind us. He looks at Laura, places his hand on her forehead and gives her the blessing.

He smiles at laura and speaks with grace. When he is finished, he begins to walk back to the front of the church to resume the service.

My eyes well up with with tears.

I realize, in this moment, that this is what the Father does for us.

God comes to us, even when we think we “miss” our chance.

God comes to us in our feelings of smallness, insecurity, and shame.

When we turn away he doesn’t give up. When we feel out of place and uncomfortable, he finds us. Most of all, he doesn’t come to shame or condemn, but to bless us!

He wants to bless and he will come to us and do this!

I will never forget this service. And I am ever grateful for Father Barr and how he modeled Christ coming and finding and blessing, not only my daughter, but me.

So many lessons here.

So much grace here.