The Sunday I Didn't Want To Go

Some stone altars are built around dramatic moments.

Others are built around one reluctant yes.

Mine started on a Sunday I did not want to go.

By then, I had been drowning for a long time.

Depression had settled in. Anxiety had tightened its grip. Suicidal thoughts had become louder than hope.

I was exhausted.

Not just tired.

Soul tired.

The kind of tired where getting out of bed feels impossible. The kind where showers feel overwhelming. The kind where tomorrow feels heavier than today. I had reached a place where I could no longer see beyond the pain. I had already made plans no one knew about. I had quietly decided I was done.  

Then my husband said something simple:

“You never felt this way when you went to church.”  

Then he said:

“If you go tomorrow, I’ll go with you.”  

I wish I could tell you faith rose up.

I wish I could tell you I suddenly felt hopeful.

I didn’t.

I went grudgingly.

I went empty.

I went because I had run out of options.

But God was waiting for me there.

I thought I was walking into another church service.

Heaven knew I was walking into a rescue.

I did not know it yet, but that Sunday would lead me to a Tuesday where chains would break, strongholds would fall, and Jesus would meet me in a way I had never experienced before.  

Looking back now, I realize something:

Sometimes we think the miracle starts at the altar.

Sometimes it starts with dragging ourselves out of bed.

Sometimes faith looks like tears.

Sometimes faith looks like showing up.

And sometimes the holiest thing you can do is take one reluctant step when you have nothing left.

That Sunday became a stone altar for me.

Because now when I pass that place in my memory, I remember:

I thought I was making myself go to church.

But Jesus was leading me toward freedom.

To read what happened on Tuesday, click here.