The Trouble with Sundays


I’m a Christian.

I’m a born again believer.

I’m a worship leader and minister….

and I don’t go to church on Sundays.


After our abrupt return from California, I had a difficult time returning to church. So many people had cried rivers of tears when we’d left a year prior, and so many people were convinced we would thrive and be successful in ministry in California.

Yet, there I was walking through the church doors….

the welcome friendly, but distant.

I was a stranger to these people. Life had moved on, and I wasn’t a part of it anymore.

The stage lit up and the praise team began to sing energetically. I looked beside my dear friend; remembering the place I stood in for almost 3 years; singing God’s praises. The worship continued and many congregants began to lift their hands and sing out to God. Salty, burning tears began to run down my face. The very sound of “the house” stabbed my wound, and reminded me time and time again, that I had failed, and I was back at square one.

After service some people recognized me and asked the questions I was still unready to answer.

“How are things in California?” started the conversation rolling.

“Are you guys moving back?” pain pierced my stomach, and the insides of my mouth began to swell with saliva.

“Where are you living?” BOOM!!!! There it was. The boulder had tumbled violently down the hill; now shattered in the road in millions of pieces…..

For you see….we’d given up , sold, and lost almost everything to move to California.

And now…we had almost NOTHING.


That was 5 months ago.

I thought the feeling would’ve have lessened by now, but it hasn’t.

My husband plays many instruments, and on Sundays he drives 45 minutes to another church to play. They pay him a weekly stipend that helps with gas since he also has to drive 45 minutes every weekday to his normal job. The church he plays for holds service for 3.5 hours; with no children’s activities. Which means I’d be the one in the pews; wrestling with my children, feeding them snacks and entertaining them, feeling worn and stretched all the while….not able to enjoy the service anyways.

Every Sunday morning I wake with a feeling that can only be described as the weight of an elephant sitting on my chest.

Heaviness. Constraint. Burdened. Anxiety.

I sit here with a voice to sing , the passion for souls, a heart for ministry, the understanding and anointing to lead others in worship, the gift to discern and intercede…..I sit here…at “home” ….in tears….wishing that things were different.

Wishing a minister from the church would reach out to our family.

Wishing my husband didn’t have to play at another church.

Wishing we were somewhere working TOGETHER in ministry in a church where worship, the gospel, outreach and community were a way of life.

Wishing we had a HOME….a community…and not just broken pieces.

I wish I could go to church.