The first time my world imploded, it was late on a Saturday night. 

I truly thought the pain would take me under.  I distinctly remember the sensation of drowning – in despair, in disbelief, but most of all, I was drowning in grief. Chasing the sweet bliss of sleep that night was fruitless, but I sure tried.  Bliss never came, and I stared at the slow-moving blades of the ceiling fan until the sun peaked through the blinds.     

Who do you turn to when your life is in shambles?  Where do you go when you’ve cried a thousand tears through a long sleepless night, replaying every season of life that has led you to that moment?  I needed peace and comfort so badly, just as much as I needed my next breath, but I didn’t know who to call – who could I tell, whose shoulder would be open to my tears?   

Sunday morning dawned, and though I didn’t want to leave my bed, I was desperate for the peace that I’d found during other difficult seasons of my life.  So, with concealer layered over the dark circles under my eyes and a smile painted on my face, I went to church.   

And I cried silently in my pew through the entire service, using my long hair to shield the bitter tears that wouldn’t stop rolling down my face.  I let them fall, hoping they’d wash away my pain and usher in the peace I had often found in that sanctuary.  

Not Close Enough

The peace I sought didn’t come, not then.  I was at church, but I found no comfort crying alone, guarding my tears and praying no one noticed the shattered girl at the end of the pew. In hindsight, I can see how close I was to the peace for which my heart ached.  I was close, but not close enough.  

Mama always said that “close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” and I had neither of those in my hands.       

A few months later, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, that still-tender wound was torn wide open all over again.  The all-too-familiar-now pain came rushing back, bringing with it the darkness of anxiety that said I’d never survive this second wave of grief.   

What do you do when you can no longer discern truth from deception?  Where do you go when you can’t find the pieces to make your life whole again?  Perhaps I’m a creature of habit – more likely, I’m slow on the uptake – but that Sunday afternoon, I once again drove back to church. 

And I sat alone in my car in the empty parking lot and screamed and raged and cried.  My fists pounded the steering wheel until I exhausted myself.  Tears fell relentlessly, blurring the image of the cross on the front of the church building.  I was at church, pleading with God for peace, but it still didn’t come. 

I was close, but so far away, and there were still no horseshoes and hand grenades to be found. 

Fast forward a few more months.  For a third time, my carefully reconstructed world was revealed to be nothing more than paper mâché, and it had just gone up in flames.  I had thought I was doing well, standing on my own two feet and pushing through the challenges that came.  More than that, I was healing, moving forward and learning to laugh again.   

But paper mâché isn’t structural.  It crumples and burns, in a way that can’t be restored. 

Waving the White Flag

What do you do when the last of your hope drifts away with the smoke and ashes of your broken world?  Who do you turn to when you’re defeated and hopeless, when you’ve been knocked down too hard, too many times, and you can’t rise again in battle? 

This time, I waved the white flag, and I called upon the church.  With a stuttered nod, I placed my phone in my daughter’s hands and asked her to make the call that my emotions couldn’t have made. This time, the church came to me.  

And I wept on the shoulders of people willing to sort through the rubble with me.  It was their arms that carried the blessed peace for which my soul cried.   

Friend, I don’t know what waves are bearing down on you today, but I do know that just being close to church isn’t close enough when the storms of life threaten to take us under.  This world wants us to believe that we can make it on our own, and believe me, I have stubbornly tried.  I have sat through worship services with a broken heart that I intentionally hid from the people in the pew next to me.  I have sheltered my pain, hiding the raw and the ugly behind plastic smiles and a perfectly crafted façade.   

If that’s you today, I beg you to learn from my stubbornness.  Worship services are powerful, yes, but simply going to church did not bring the peace and comfort I needed.  True peace was found when I was able to drop the plastic smile and let my pain be visible to people who have hurt and struggled in ways that reminded me that I was not alone in my troubles.  Comfort wrapped its arms around me when I lowered the façade and admitted that I needed help.   

Was it easy? Not even a little bit.  Truthfully, it was one of the most uncomfortable days of my life.  But it was also one of the most beautiful and from it came one of the most extraordinary plot twists of my life.  In hindsight, I know that I struggled for longer than necessary and my pride denied others the opportunity to be a blessing, simply because I foolishly believed that peace was a location, a proximity to holy ground.  

I was close, but I almost missed it entirely.    

Mama was right, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.  It turns out, Mama was right about many things. 

“Love empowers us to fulfill the law of the Anointed One as we carry each other’s troubles.”

Galatians 6:2 TPT

“Two are better than one because they have a more satisfying return for their labor; for if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and does not have another to lift him up.”

Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 AMP