I miss Sundays.
Greeting sweet elderly ladies and gentlemen, settling into the pew while admiring the stained glass, feeling a sense of peace as the piano strikes the opening chords of my favorite hymn....I miss church. It's not 'any' church I miss. If that were the case, I'd take a stroll and come across a half dozen Catholic ones. No, I miss my small, close knit Baptist church from home. I even miss the big, beautiful Episcopalian church from Sewanee. To sing together with other believers, feeling the harmony wash over me as the words both challenge and call to my heart, I long for singing. Communion, soft bread turned red from it's brief moment dipped in the bitter wine, remembering the blood and body of Christ that was given in my name, I hunger for Communion. Listening to the teaching, to the message, of the minister while I think about how his words apply to my life at present, I need direction, accountability, scripture. Where is Sunday here?
In defense, I did look up an international church when I got to Toulouse. There's one in a suburb nearby that I'm not sure how to get to. The website for the church boasts lots of Bible studies and Sunday services in ENGLISH! I've just been nervous about going to a new church all by myself. More honestly, I'm nervous that I may encounter beliefs radically different from the Christianity I know. I realize that my lack of spiritual nourishment is no one's fault but my own. However, like all things French, it's not just a general experience I miss, but rather my own, specific experiences unique to America.
No comments:
Post a Comment