House on the Rock

I remember being newly married, having no kids, and therefore, regularly able to walk into church with nothing more than a Bible and a journal. Perhaps, in dry seasons, I might carry a Chapstick. I could stay at church for nearly an hour after the gathering, bouncing from conversation to conversation bound by nothing but an increasingly hungry stomach as the clock crept toward lunchtime. Sometimes I’d settle on the surface with sisters in Christ, but sometimes we’d dare to go deeper, trusting the foyer walls to safeguard our secrets as we whispered woes of suffering or sin. 

Those days feel like a far-off memory. I now have to carry in so much baby gear that I’d benefit from a rolling cart. It’s a miracle if Chapstick makes it through the door amid all the clutter and chaos. And I can’t remember the last time I finished a conversation at church.

As soon as my son became mobile, I became increasingly aware of the difficulty of connecting with people on Sundays. Unless someone is willing to walk with me through the halls as we chase the child like shadows, most conversations are cut off mid-sentence. I often have to shout apologies while scurrying to pull my son off the stage or redirecting him away from the restroom. While many are quick to laugh it off, it’s difficult to ignore the low-level frustration that settles in as I attempt to placate the interrupted interaction with the often empty promise: “We’ll talk more next week!”

Knowing that I have such a time cap on conversations leads to some tricky decision making. Should I prioritize greeting new guests, rapidly firing off a few get-to-know-you questions but also risking rudeness as I race to retrieve a runaway rascal? Or is it safer to stick to familiar friends who would understand my sudden departure but may be desiring deeper dialogue and feel therefore discouraged by the divergence? Sometimes I land in a heap of learned helplessness, where I know I can’t win, so why try? It’s easier to just sneak out as the gathering ends. 

This regular rhythm of baby chasing could result in isolation, as I so often let be the case. But on good days, with God’s help, it can also lead to inspiration, where I feel encouraged and empowered to pursue relationships creatively, intentionally, and beyond the bounds of Sunday morning. I’ve learned a few things about pursuing relationships in the season of life that seldom allows for complete conversations.

First, hospitality becomes a necessity. While my one-year-old wanders all throughout the massive elementary school where our church assembles, it is much easier to contain him in the four walls of our home, where he is well-acquainted with our boundaries and “no-touch” zones. Having a couple over for dessert as he makes Magna-Tile masterpieces might be the only way we get a conversation in. 

Second, it becomes imperative for me to participate as much as possible. It can often feel tempting to ignore the invitations for Mommy Meet-Ups or playdates at the park. After all, won’t it just be an hour-long saga of thirteen different moms chasing kids and never actually talking to each other? But thirteen interrupted conversations are better than never starting one, and we’ll look back one day and be thankful for the seeds of friendship planted at that park. 

And finally, it grounds me in the grace of the gospel. We’re broken people engaging in broken conversations, but our worth is not in our ability to talk without interruptions. Instead, we find our identity in King Jesus, who interrupted his time in Heaven to come die for sinners like me. Those who put their trust in him look forward to an eternity with him – with no sin, suffering, brokenness or bitterness. We’ll be in the presence of God, feasting in flawless fellowship with a forever family of faithful friends. We’ll have plenty of time to talk then.