I love Sundays. I didn’t used to. Especially when I was young. To a fourteen-year-old, Sundays meant the day before Monday. Monday meant school. You know that sick feeling you get in the pit of your stomach while sitting in the pew during Sunday evening service? Maybe not. But I do.
One minute you’re clapping your hands to “I’ll Fly Away” and the next, you feel like you’re going to throw up because you just remembered the weekend was over. School was tomorrow. Did you finish your project? Are you ready for your oral report? Will Ms. Shapiro make us run laps again in P.E.? How do you say “please don’t call on me to answer” in French? So you keep clapping to “I’m One of Them” and wish there was another day between Sunday and Monday.
Don’t get me wrong—I loved church. I’ve been going since before I was born, or at least that’s what I’m told. Mom and Dad were deeply involved in ministry. First in the Church of God denomination (before we knew better), then later in Tucson, where our family landed when I was a young almost 13-year-old.
Tucson meant more church, more young people get-togethers—we called them sing-ins. We’d meet at someone’s house with our voices, guitars, and food. We’d sing, play games, and eventually start up a volleyball game. Good times. Our youth group was amazing. We went to Message Conventions whenever my dad was a guest minister, packing everyone up to head back east or down south. Those were some of the best times of my teenage years.
And then there was the Grand Canyon. I honestly think all the practice hikes for two months beforehand were harder than the actual canyon. We had an awesome time. As a fifteen-year-old, I was romantically inspired when Jerry proposed to Rachel at the bottom of the canyon. Wow, that was so cool.
Most of us from that youth group, now in our 50s and 60s, are still good friends. Not as close as we were—everyone’s busy with their own families and grandchildren—but still serving the Lord and catching up when we can.
So yes, most of my life has been spent in or around a church atmosphere. I made lifelong friends there. Some stayed for a season, some only a chapter, and a few have stuck by me for life. I had my first serious crush. I fell in love for the first time and then shocked everyone by eloping with someone completely unexpected. I remember reading somewhere that the frontal cortex isn’t fully developed until age twenty-four. That explains a lot. If you don’t know, the frontal cortex is the part of the brain that makes rational decisions. Enough said.
As a young adult, married with two babies, we became involved in our church’s music department. My husband was the song leader, and I was the church organist, singer, and choir director. My two young babies stayed in their infant carriers right on the front row, closest to the organ. I remember one service when I was pregnant with my second baby, Zoe. During the prayer request time, I needed to throw up—because that’s what I did every pregnancy. A lot. So I’d hop down from the organ bench, run to the back of the church where the bathrooms were, do my business, and be back on the organ before they said Amen. Timing was everything.
Our church decided to start a Christian school for kids who wanted a place where they didn’t have to be ridiculed at public school. My dad would never have pulled us out of public school. He believed that living a Christian life in school was the best way to build character. Thank you, Dad. I loved school, especially when I got all my work done on time and didn’t have to feel sick during Sunday evening service.
As time marched on, Sundays were still special. They just looked different. My family pew got smaller, then bigger, then smaller again.
My son decided church wasn’t for him and stopped coming. He was an adult when he made this decision, and I believe I’ll see him back in church somewhere, serving the Lord again.
Then there were three. My daughter got married but kept coming to church. Then my husband died. Then there were two. Then my grandson came along, then two granddaughters, and the family pew grew again—five of us. Then my mom started coming to our church, and my heart was full. Six of us.
Then my grandson turned sixteen and decided he didn’t want to come anymore. Then my daughter went through traumatic seasons and had to focus on her health while raising her three kids alone. But I still had two granddaughters and my mom. And for the most part, that’s the way it is currently. Sometimes both granddaughters come with me, but mostly just the oldest. She’s driving now, so it’s nice to have her help with that long drive to and from church.
Mom is almost ninety-one and still comes faithfully every Sunday. One of these days, I’ll need to start picking her up. But she loves her independence and loves driving. So I just spend a lot of time praying for her guardian angels to watch over her. She loves to drive fast.
So that brings us to today. It’s June, so it’s hot—109 degrees outside, 117 in my car until the A/C cools it down enough to touch the steering wheel. I bring my coffee and my tunes as I drive the forty-five-minute haul to Surprise, Arizona. Clear, hot, and sunny. This morning, I was alone. I normally love having my granddaughter with me because it makes the trip go by faster. We talk, laugh, and catch up on the previous week. But today, it was just me. I love being able to park under the covered area during the summer heat. It keeps my car from melting, saves the paint job, and makes it bearable when I head home.
Our church is beautiful. The sanctuary is freezing, but that’s just an Arizona thing. You learn early on to bring a sweater, no matter how hot it is outside. Shaking hands with people after church is interesting. It could be 110 outside, but their hands are ice. If the building is full and we’ve been singing for a while, I warm up. But I always end up putting my sweater on. Maybe it’s just a sign of old age.
The music is always good, but sometimes it’s too quiet, too slow, too fast—the list goes on. This is from another musician’s viewpoint. Don’t even get me started on the hand clapping issue. Some songs we used to clap to perfectly? Now no one claps, and if they try, they’re always on the wrong beat. It’s embarrassing, and I’m pretty sure the angels above are rolling their eyes as they clap their hands on the exact correct beats. The ongoing battle of the 1-and-3 clap versus the 2-and-4 clap. Sometimes it gets so messy that I quit clapping altogether, which I hate. I’m a singer and musician and love church worship. But come on, people. I get it when we’re singing a traditional hymn—totally 1 and 3. But for other upbeat worship songs that require a clap, please: 2 and 4.
We have some of the best singers and ministers around, in my opinion. Our pastor just lost his wife a few months ago. His heart is grieving, and will be basically for the rest of his life. He just doesn’t realize that quite yet.
Grief doesn’t have a time limit. It just lives with you. Day after day. Sometimes painfully, other times just a whisper in your ear. Some days you’ll feel strong; other days you won’t get out of bed. One day you’ll be buying groceries and a song will come on that reminds you of a moment, or the smell of a flower she loved will drift your way, and it will immediately take you back to a memory.
Smells and sounds were the two that intruded the most for me. Old Spice. Homemade salsa. Sawdust. And music—his favorites, I had to stop playing for years. Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir, Andraé Crouch, Gaither Vocal Band, Dottie Rambo, Mahalia Jackson.
So I know my pastor will have good days, hard days, and downright leave-me-alone days. Eventually, over time, the grief will show up a little differently. But he’ll be okay. He has a very well-established village that will watch over him, care for him, and make sure he’s well fed. I can only imagine how he misses Sandy’s incredible cooking.
I love church. I love Sundays. Life is far from perfect; the church is far from perfect. But we’re learning. It’s a process. How to love and forgive and show mercy, empathy, kindness, and patience. How to be more curious, ask more questions, stop being afraid. Open up.
Church is a lot like a family—a big family. We love each other, but we’re learning better how to show it, express it, accept it. Churches aren’t for perfect people. They’re a safe place where you can heal, hope, repent, grow, learn to accept correction with a good attitude, and watch out for each other. Pray for each other. Reach out. Open your doors and hearts to each other. We’re all learning to be better, to do better. To take responsibility for our actions that were wrong. To ask forgiveness.
Keep an eye out on the ones who start missing services, who stop talking and fellowshipping. Be mindful of mental health issues—depression, sadness, trauma, pain, loss. These aren’t new. Look at Elijah. They’re just now being talked about in church circles. People are finally opening up about how their minds have been beating them down. Remember, the mind is where all the battles are fought, so why wouldn’t we understand that Christians are going to have mental struggles? Stay alert. Watch for signs. Be kind. Reach out. Make a phone call. Stop by and check on people.
You are not alone in this journey called life. It’s rough, but we can still experience joy even through the darkest of times. Sometimes in life, our prayers are worshipful—praising Him, loving Him, basking in His presence. Other times they’re desperation, yearning for answers, begging and pleading for a way out or through. Pouring our broken hearts and unanswered questions out to Him, the only one we know to turn to. That’s the reality of the Christian walk.
He doesn’t remove the Red Sea; He parts it. He doesn’t rescue the Hebrew children from the fire; He shows up and stays. Jesus prayed to let this cup pass from Him. He didn’t want to go to the cross. He begged God to stop it. But He didn’t. And Jesus submitted and went.
That was a hard one for me. When my husband was in a coma for 144 days, I believed with every fiber in my body that God would raise him up and heal him. When He didn’t, I went through the fire. I questioned over and over. Then I read that God didn’t even save His own Son from death—so why would He save my husband? But then I saw Him raise Lazarus from the dead. I saw healings over and over again, even miracles. So why? How did He go about choosing who lives, who dies?
It was not a pretty time for me. But the Lord, full of grace and mercy, love and patience, walked beside me every single day. He reminded me that I am loved with an everlasting love, and that sometimes the answer is no.
A post that caught my eye last week at just the right time was from @taming_trents.
“I thought the healing would come before I learned how to live with the ache. Sometimes the deepest crisis of faith is not whether God is good. But trying to reconcile His goodness with the landscape of my life. Because You are good, but this still hurts. You are faithful, and I’m still here. You are kind, but this still happened. I find myself in the dark of the night whispering words I never imagined I would say: Lord, I thought you would choose differently for me.”
I have to admit—I’ve whispered words like that before in the middle of the night. But no matter how hard the battle rages, or how deep you feel you’re drowning, something keeps pushing you up, just high enough to catch your next breath. Down again, then up. Breathe. Then off to the side, you see a light and a boat. A hand reaches over the side and pulls you in, wraps His arms around you, and says, “I’ve got you. You’re safe.” It might not be a fancy rescue, but you’re alive. You’re still breathing, and you keep moving forward.
Just thinking out loud,
Pam
Pam Torres | Author 