"You know what's so interesting about you Emily?"

My heart raced just a little bit. "Uh-oh" I threw my hands up in the air "tell me."

"What's so interesting is that you're really tough, but at the same time sensitive. You know what I mean?"

I did.

Our brunch, and walking talk, was a result of the backlash from my previous blog post. She, and countless others who contacted me via Facebook, e-mail, or the good ol' fashioned face-to-face, were surprised, confused, and a little hurt by the things I said. While my intention with my post was to bring to light a personal issue I'd been struggling with for months, feeling like I didn't belong in "the Church" (capital C), what came across was that I wanted to leave "the church" (lowercase c) that I've been attending.

I'm learning that what I intend to get across, and what people really hear, are often very different. Or, like that one author says, "when you're writing something it's yours, but once you publish, it belongs to the reader."

Ryan sat down with me the day after the messages and comments on my blog started coming in. He saw how emotionally drained and overwhelmed I was, and tried his best to comfort me.

"People don't want you to leave. They care about you." His voice softened and his brow furrowed just a little, which is what he always does when he's worried about me.

"That's not how it feels. How am I supposed to go to church Sunday, when me being there will just be a distraction? " My voice wobbled a little. "It'll seem like I wrote the post just looking for attention."

He shook his head. "Everyone will want to see you, because they love you." I shrugged, wanting to end the discussion.

That first Saturday night after my post, I went to sleep, with no intention of waking up the next morning and going to church. Ryan told me that he was going, and he'd meet me after. Fifteen minutes before the service was going to start, while I was still in bed, my phone chimed, letting me know I had a text.

So i guess i wont be seeing you at church this morning?


It was from my friend Craig, one of the few people who I felt could understand my unsettling feelings with church. I wrote back.

Haha no, kinda scared to show my face.


He replied. i would imagine! but think of how cool of a follow-up post that would make!!


I thought about it, but still wasn't convinced. Then he sent me another text.

i know the timing of this is late..but i really do miss seeing you when i make it to church. you're one of the first persons i look for.


There's very few times in my life where I can say, with a strong conscience, that I know God wanted me to do something. Usually it's a feeling, or a hunch, or a "this sounds like something that the God I'm used to talking to would like." But getting that text, from the person it was from, for a variety of reasons, left me little doubt that God was dropping me the not-so-subtle suggestion to get out of bed, and get to church.

Sneaking in late, I managed to find a seat without drawing too much attention to myself. The sermon was good, the worship music loud, and the friends I did see didn't treat me any differently. All in all, a pretty normal Sunday. Afterwards, I found someone my post had upset, and we talked it over in the hallway. Because he is someone loving, generous, and much wiser than I am, I listened to his concerns, and accepted his invitation to lunch, and then after lunch, Ryan and I went back to his and his wife's house for coffee. He raised some good points about how better I could have handled my concerns, and showed me things about how my writing affects people, that I'd never considered. The whole time we talked, what I felt was not condemnation, but love.

As the week went on, I got more messages, and more invitations to grab dinner, or coffee to talk. At first, my reaction was mostly embarrassment, at what appeared to be people taking my post as a cry for attention. But people were not pitying, or looking down on me. They were sharing with me that they appreciated my transparency, or that they too struggled with wondering if what they believed and did was right. It made me realize that my post wasn't a cry for attention, but a call for discussion.

The conversations did shed light on a major flaw in my logic. Over the past few months, in the spiritual waters of my faith in church, I've gotten angrier and angrier as my head sank lower below the surface. But instead of reaching out and putting my hands up, signaling that I was in danger of drowning, I just floated there, upset that no one came along to rescue me. What I didn't realize, was that by not signaling to someone that I needed help, no one was going to know I was in danger of giving up all together. My post was that signal. It took so long to cry for help, because deep down, I feared no one would care. That they'd welcome me, a troublemaker with tons of questions, finally leaving. What happened though, was that as soon as my church family saw me in trouble, they dove right in, and swam out to meet me. They got wet, and uncomfortable. For me.

The culmination of this realization occurred last night, at Starbucks, where Ryan and I met to talk to one of our church's leaders. We talked about why it was important to be involved with a spiritual body, why people reacted the way they did, and why I'm not the only one who doesn't agree with everything the church (lower and upper case) does.

He said something to me that I hadn't thought of.

"You and Ryan are about to be married, which is above all else, a commitment. Right now, you feel happy and great, but later on, there will be times when you don't feel like you want to be with each other. That doesn't change the commitment you made. Same thing goes with church. It doesn't have to be this one, but it's important to find one, and commit, and stay committed."

I took a sip of my coffee. "Even if I don't agree with everything?"

"Of course! Because if everyone that doesn't agree leaves, the church won't have those diverse voices, and it  never has the chance to change or grow. Your voice is needed. Not everyone agrees with everything we do, but that doesn't change the fact that as a church family, we're committed to each other."

As simple as it sounds, hearing a leader tell me that it was okay, even welcome, for me to disagree and question, and struggle with my relationship with the church, reminded me of something I'd long forgot. Something I forgot I believed. That church is a family. Even if I feel like the black sheep, that doesn't mean I'm not a part of it. Or that deep down, even when it doesn't feel that way, I belong. Because of how God made me, it might be harder for me to find my place, or, if there's not a place for me, I might even have to make one. But that place will always be within a family of believers.

After about an hour and a half of talking with him, Ryan and I said goodbye, and walked back to our car. He grabbed my hand and held onto it.

"So, can we stay where we are?"

I squeezed his fingers and smiled at him.

"Yeah. I guess I'm not going anywhere."