The girls are working on the church praise dance team performance. They have been working very hard, putting in a lot of time with their teacher (she is wonderful) and the show is next Sunday. I am very excited about watching them....I am always so proud of them and their teacher and what she accomplishes with the team. Anyway, they had a very short "teaser" performance this morning in church to encourage members to come watch. So we went to church.
I haven't been in a while. In fact, the last time I did, was a communion Sunday, and I left about 20 minutes into the service because I started crying and couldn't stop. I wrote about it here. I guess it had been a few months. Patric ran into a church member last week and she asked why we hadn't been coming. He told her we will when we are ready. She asked about me and he told her I have been struggling with, in his words, "the whole church thing". She told him we should come because they were there to help us with that, with everything, with anything.
I feel loved in that church. I love the sanctuary...in all it's knotty pine and cabin-like warmth, all it's close-knit, small town feel. But it is so incredibly hard for me to walk in there. It is beautifully decorated for Christmas. All the symbols I used to love and cherish are now staring at me like I'm an outcast. Like I don't fit in with them (the symbols, not the people). They seem foreign to me. I see the white lights on the tree and the lights on the nativity sets and pretty starbursts grow from them...bigger and bigger until I can no longer see through my welled up eyes and tears start to fall. And they fall. And they don't stop.
I knew this would happen. I knew when I went in there, I would cry. Not only because of Chase's funeral, but because whatever would happen in there, whatever the sermon might be, it would relate to me. Some how. It would identify with me and some aspect of my life. Whether I wanted to or not.
So I cried. As quietly and inconspicuously as I could. And Patric held my hand and comforted me. But I was stupid to hope no one would notice. I was dumb to think I was alone. Too many people care about us too deeply. I feel it. And it helps. A little. But it also hurts. The warm looks and the heartfelt words, "it was nice to see you this morning," are so kind and well meant. But it hurts to be there. It hurts to feel love when all I want to do is love the son I can't hold.
