Why I go to church

Something happened this past week which greatly upset me. Trying to be stoic (Stoic isn’t exactly my middle name, right?), I did not cry. I attempted to put it out of my mind. I worked a lot. Last night, still trying to not cry, I dragged my Tax Deductions all over town shopping (uh, not exactly normal, see). Then I put them to bed and started a Home Improvement Project. Woke up this morning still determined not to cry, to put it in perspective, not to think about it, and go to church hoping that the pew we usually sit in wasn’t occupied (which, irrationally, annoys me every time it happens).

And sitting in church, holding onto my Tax Deductions with Dude playing with my hair, I started to cry. And I kept crying. All the way through sacrament meeting and Sunday school (that would be 2 hours in Protestant and Catholic time). Dude briefly made me laugh by appending “But ours sparkle” to a comment someone made during Sunday school. But I sat out Relief Society as usual and tried to read a sharply amusing/ironic piece called Byuck. And it was amusing for a while—

—until a woman I’ve known for 15 years but rarely have a chance to sit down and converse with (but when we do, though…) asked me how I was doing. Sincerely.

The question, “How are you?” asked sincerely is probably the hardest question in the world to answer. Maybe even harder than, “What is the meaning of life?”

And I started to cry again. I laid it all out for her. When I was finished, she drew an analogy for me that made me understand that it was just one small drop of water in the ocean of my life. And I felt better.

Now, this friend always makes me feel better, but we aren’t BFFs. Never have been. It would not have occurred to me to call her and say, “Make me feel better,” but in retrospect, she is the only one who could have done so.

I feel better.

’Cause I went to church today.

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