52 Sundays

For what it’s worth, as the musical RENT quite melodically taught us, there are many ways to measure a year.

“Cheers to 28, may you be remembered well.

Cheers to 29, here’s to the life that is sure to happen as I learn how to measure this next year.”

For what it’s worth, as the musical RENT quite melodically taught us, there are many ways to measure a year. As for me, for this past year, I’ve decided to measure my Sundays.

365 days ago, 52 Sundays, I made the decision to step back into the church - this time to stay. I wasn’t going to visit, not to run into a boy, not because a friend had asked me to, not “just because.” I was going for me. I decided I couldn’t let one more year pass by where I didn’t try. God met me where I was - I figured it might be time for me to go to His house, to spend time with His people. I decided to at least start by giving Him my Sundays.

This last year has been a whirlwind. I’m not quite sure I’d call it a California superbloom level of growth but it’s been growth nonetheless. Growth that has felt both out of nowhere and meticulously sought after, beautifully easy and painfully tough.

What started as a year walking into church two minutes before service starts (with just enough time to walk in unnoticed and get to a seat) and leaving just as quickly ended with walking into church 45 minutes early (to pray, meet with a team, and spend time with my friends) and leaving six hours after the message was finished to work at a service event.

Somewhere in the middle there I went to dance practices, yoga trainings, I met new people, and I went to strangers’ homes with the hope of learning something new. I ate with a rowdy bunch at a local Mexican restaurant on more than one occasion that ended with push-ups in the parking lot. I hopped around a trampoline park with three of my favorite humans. I celebrated Christmas with my family. I burned fears and I blessed dreams. I learned what it meant to enjoy a moment rather than stress about the next one. (Or, at least tried to practice learning what that meant.) I claimed victory and healing by whatever means and whatever timeline. I had to remind myself constantly that this was my claim. I said fuck at the alter as my heart longed for proof of grandma prayers. I spent 1 AM at an emergency room. I was convinced I had thyroid cancer and prayed for joy unspeakable. Three weeks later, I praised God I was cancer free. I prayed over doorframes and empty chairs. I served people meals that were displaced from their homes because of a tornado. I listened to their stories. I ate dinner in Orlando before setting sail to the Bahamas. I sat on the floor in the back of a room waiting for someone to talk to me in an effort to be obedient. I was sick on Mother’s day but watched my mom go to church on that specific day for the first time in a long time. I waited tables at a 4 year old’s make-believe restaurant that featured magic potions and the occasional dinosaur encounter. I ate at my brother’s restaurant. I watched baseball games, the Elvis movie, and the Barbie movie. I spent Father’s day with my dad and Papow. I ate ice cream in Cuba. I attended meetings to be able to return. I answered big girl questions. I prayed over backpacks.

&& that was just the Sundays.

Not to forget the Mondays where I started therapy, the Tuesdays where I studied rabbit trails with a motley crew, the Wednesdays I built relationships with amazing women of God, the Thursdays full of toddler hugs, the Fridays I avoided as much as I could, and the Saturdays I spent at conferences that healed pieces of my soul.

I’m not sure what year 29 will hold, I suppose that’s the point. What I do know is this, 28 was kind to me and maybe more importantly, I was kind to me at 28. Twenty-eight introduced me to some of my favorite people and places. For that I am forever grateful.

Cheers to 28, may you be remembered well.

Cheers to 29, here’s to the life that is sure to happen as I learn how to measure this next year.