The Courage of Mending 

I remember my grandma‘s white lace curtains hanging over the windows in her bedroom. I would stare at them with tear-stained eyes as I sat on her bed, telling her of my sorrows and loss. It didn’t matter if I was 8 or 38 years old; she would listen compassionately and then touch my shoulder blades and say, “My sweet one, this pain is what makes our wings grow stronger.” 

I knew she was referring to me becoming more angelic, and even though I knew no wings were growing out my back, the feel of her fingers tracing my scapula made me pause for a second and wonder if it was true. 

Life has continued. There have been more sorrows than I care to name, yet in the moments that I feel most down, believing that my wings are not only there and fully grown but that someone has torn them off my back, I shudder. I imagine myself sitting alone, slowly mending them.

Our bravest moments are not when others are watching us soar nor when we are alone nursing our wounds. It is the moment of truth when we can stand up and strap those wings back on and step to the edge, determined to fly again—those of us who decided to walk arm and arm again after there has been fallout. Our lament is the strength of the thread in which we mend our broken wings.

“It’s you! We grew up together! You! 
My best friend! Those long hours of leisure as we walked arm in arm, 
God, a third party to our conversation. 
My companion, my close friend; we once enjoyed sweet fellowship 
as we worshipped together in the house of God.” 
-Ps. 55:14 (The Message & NIV) 

This obscure verse of lament comes back to me in the strangest moments. I don’t relate to the other verses in this chapter, but this 14th verse strikes my knowing place.

As two decades of church planting end for me, so does the communal mission my friends and I deeply believed in. The church still stands, and the ministry continues to thrive, but we have lost most of our founding members since its origin. It isn’t a negative thing to have a lot of rebirth, but the absence of an old familiar sucker-punched me. 

“….we once enjoyed sweet fellowship as we worshipped together in the house of God.”

I don’t blame the people who needed to leave the church to save their faith. The term Christian and the actions of Christians have done much more harm than I ever wanted to know about, so bearing such a title is jarring for me. So, there isn’t a judgment on those who cannot congregate in a church building because they have been misrepresented, abused, harmed, silenced, or betrayed by institutions under the name of Christ. I can offer to understand these stories, but how lonely it is to gather together without the ones I had once worked with for the Kingdom to come to this earth.

I feel accompanied as if the writer of Psalm 55 has experienced the same loneliness.

We wounded birds in the church bear the grief each Sunday of what was or could have been.

Anyone who has known the loss of a pastor stepping down, a church community dividing or falling apart, or a best friend moving away understands the deep sting. Yet why such an invasive burning? Like all loss, the loss requires grief, but what happens when you walk back into the house of God? 

When we walk into a church building, it all comes flooding back. The feelings of comfort, loss, betrayal, goodness, longing, gossip, back-stabbing, hope, and loneliness barrage our minds depending on our experience. The house of God is where markings are made—baptisms, weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, rites of passage we experience with our community while God observes and blesses. When we are wounded in the most intimate place, scars are left. 

After having my mother strongly admonish me from taking communion at mass, I no longer feel welcome to accept the Eucharist even if I am in an affirming place. I repeat the priest’s words, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive You, but only say the word, and I shall be healed.” Even then, it’s as if my mother’s disapproval is a wound, reminding me of past hurt. Sometimes, the invisible scars of misunderstanding linger the longest and loudest when we step back inside a church. 

Jesus showed his scars to the disciples to offer Himself to them. Vulnerability happens when we invite others to see, touch, or hear about the scars our stories have incurred. Research shows the brain lights up when we let someone trace the scars on our skin. Some of the most courageous Christians are those who continue to be in safe communities after there has been a loss. 

So those of us strapping on our mended wings and walking back into the church are taking some of our bravest steps, hoping they will hold up in the wind. As I stand in line, scooting closer to the communion table, I whisper to myself, “God sees your heart; Christ died for us all; communion is for you…it’s the food that makes your wings grow stronger.”

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Christy Bauman, Ph.D., MDFT, & LMHC is committed to helping women come into their true voices. She offers meaning-making and storywork consulting. She is the author and producer of Theology of the Womb, A Brave Lament, Documentary: A Brave Lament, and The Sexually Healthy Woman. She is a psychotherapist, supervisor, and adjunct professor who focuses on the female body, sexuality, and theology. Christy is co-director of the Christian Counseling Center for Sexual Health and Trauma with her husband Andrew. They live in Brevard, North Carolina with their three kids: Wilder, Selah, and River.