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The calendar can be cruel sometimes.

There is a rhythm to our lives; a muscle memory that develops over time as we live and develop patterns of being. The consistencies in our schedule become stabilizing beams that help us feel secure and safe when everything around us seems uncertain: meals with our families, nighttime routines with our children, daily early morning rituals, weekly meetings with a group of friends, yearly holiday gatherings.

We rely on this regularity to give us some feeling of comfort or control in the ever-present chaos, and when we lose those anchoring moments, we can easily find ourselves adrift, tossed around in the tumult of insecurity and loneliness.

Lots of people now drift on Sunday mornings.

For many people, Sundays used to be a time of solace; a soft place where they experienced belonging, where they felt an abiding sense of community, where they believed they saw the face of God, if only for a few moments. It was the steady hub of their days, around which life revolved for an hour each week.

And many of those same people wake up this Sunday morning and grieve, remembering all they no longer believe or feel anchored by. They mourn people who've disconnected, communities they've been excluded from, relationships they've lost, religion that could no longer support the weight of their doubts and questions. They may even be grieving the death of the God they thought they knew when they were there.

For those of us who no longer frequent church services, though it may have been days or decades, that muscle memory is still at work, reminding us, pulling us back, stirring up memories.

And so this day of the week, even if it is filled with new and beautiful rituals, with different patterns and people, might still be a source of pain for you. Every so often and without warning, that wound may again be opened, as you notice the calendar or the time of day or see a social media message from someone for whom Sunday mornings are now what Sunday mornings used to be for you—and you'll feel the sting of that loss.

Even if you remember exactly why you left and even if you know the reasons you disconnected or stopped believing, even if you feel better on the outside of that place, and even if you've once again redeemed your Sundays, there is that part of you that still grieves because death always stays with us. Grief is never fully complete.

It's Sunday, and you may well be grieving.

If you've had to get yourself out of harm's way from hurtful people.If you needed to escape from a toxic religion.If you no longer find the peace you once easily embraced there.If you've been excluded or pushed to the periphery for being the most authentic version of yourself.If you can no longer align yourself with what you see the Church has become,Whatever the reason, I understand.

As with all grief, there are no magic words that I can say to fully insulate your heart, no way to protect you from the occasional despair the calendar might bring.

I can only tell you that I sit in this grieving with you and will be here until it passes; hopefully before this day is over.

I hope that's enough.

Happy Sunday Mourning.

Be encouraged.

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