We were late to church but that didn’t keep people from turning around to pat my lap, extend hands across the aisle in welcome, gently whisper “It’s so good to see you.” Sometimes I forget I’m being held through this long period of uncertainty until I insert myself into community.

On some Sundays, we convince ourselves it’s too painful to go to church. Too painful to repeat the same answers to the same questions from the greeters in the parking lot and on the porch, from friends huddled in quiet conversation inside and those already seated. Surrounded by a bottleneck of smiling faces on our way out, we rub shoulders and people inquire, “When are you moving?”

The resignation of not knowing becomes a place of stress when people require a concrete answer. “I don’t know” sounds inept, unsure, and perhaps even foolish. On a particularly painful day, that simple question like “How are you?” can make me feel as though I’m standing naked among the saints.

As we live out this call to London, allowing details to unfold with each step, we are acutely aware that there are two kinds of responses written like epistles on faces.

Our walk with a blindfold into a new season conjures fear or faith in others. It all depends on past experiences or how long someone has been running from what God is asking of them.

Depending on the category, we switch between recipient and minister in conversation. Empathy does as much good work toward healing as leading someone toward deeper faith. Both require telling your story and the outcome is up to Jesus, yes?

We are surrounded by people that care and this is an extravagant gift.  Being held in times of uncertainty is what it means to be the Church.

I won’t be sharing my posts on social networking channels daily because who wants to see that much of me, really? If you want to follow our adventure to London subscribe to the blog in the side bar and posts will slide quietly into you inbox. Start from the beginning of the series here.