Lynchburg, Virginia

Church #184 continues to look different, but I suppose today I cannot even give you one location because church seemed to happen everywhere I went. It happened at work while helping a beautiful family through a great loss. It happened at Mission Thrift with my daughter as we looked for a few things we could use to help another family. It happened before heading home when we stopped at Dave’s Hot Chicken, where we met sweet Keri and encountered another new face, another new story, another person God created who deserved to be encouraged.

And somewhere between grief, thrift-store aisles, chicken bites, conversations, my daughter beside me, families needing help, plans changing, and life unfolding, the Holy Spirit reminded me of something I know I have written approximately a hundred times throughout this journey…

We are the church.

I know. I know. I say it all the time. But maybe I keep saying it because I keep needing to learn it. Maybe we all do. Because if we truly understood what it means to be the church, I think it would change the way we walked into grocery stores. It would change the way we treated the exhausted cashier. It would change how we spoke to our families when we were tired. It would change how we treated the person who could do absolutely nothing for us in return. It would change how we approached work. It would change what we considered ministry.

We would stop waiting for Sunday morning to act like Christians.

We would realize that everywhere our feet go is somewhere the love of Jesus can go too. That does not make every place a church building. I still love the church building. I miss visiting the beautiful churches throughout Lynchburg, sitting in the pews, hearing pastors preach, listening to choirs and worship teams, meeting congregations, learning different traditions, and experiencing all the beautiful ways the body of Christ gathers together. The Bible indeed tells us not to neglect gathering together, and Christian community matters deeply.

But this journey has taught me that the gathered church should prepare us to become the scattered church. We gather. We worship. We learn. We pray. And then we go. And I think sometimes we have made church primarily about where we sit, when Jesus made discipleship about how we live when we get back up.

Life is the sermon. Your life. My life. Not just what we say about Jesus, but what people experience when they encounter us. Not just Bible verses we can quote, but whether the people around us can recognize something different in the way we love. Not just whether we say God is good, but whether we can still extend goodness when life has been anything but easy to us.

Life has not always been easy or good to me.

I know what hopelessness feels like. I knew it long before I knew how to explain it. Much of my childhood was shaped by experiences no child should have had to understand. There was trauma, fear, pain, and the kind of things that could have sent my life in a hundred different directions. There have been seasons in adulthood that brought their own heartbreak, disappointment, loss, grief, and questions.

Life could have gone very differently for me. I know that. There were enough broken pieces for bitterness to build a home inside of me. There was enough pain for anger to become my identity. There were enough wounds for me to decide that because people had hurt me, I had permission to spend the rest of my life hurting people back.

But Jesus.

Jesus changed my entire life.

The people who broke pieces of you DO NOT get to decide what the finished story looks like. They don’t. Jesus does.

Romans 8:28 tells us that God works all things together for the good of those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. That verse does not say everything that happens to us is good. Abuse is not good. Trauma is not good. Death is not good. Heartbreak is not good. Betrayal is not good. But God is so good that even the things that were not good are not beyond His ability to redeem.

He can take something He never called good and refuse to let it be wasted. He can take a wounded heart and make it tender toward wounded people. He can take someone who knows what loneliness feels like and teach them how to notice the lonely person in the room. He can take someone who has known grief and give them an extra measure of patience when she sits across from a grieving family. He can take someone who knows what hopelessness feels like and allow them to recognize it in somebody else’s eyes. And maybe that is why serving people means so much to me now. When I sit with families experiencing loss, I am not sitting there as someone who has escaped every hard thing. I am sitting there as someone Jesus has carried through hard things.

I cannot fix their grief. I cannot bring their loved one back. I cannot give them a perfect word that makes death suddenly hurt less. But I can sit there. I can listen. I can give a hug. I can remember a name. I can help. I can love. I can let someone know, even for a few minutes, that they are not carrying everything alone. And after everything Jesus has done for me, servant may still be the most important title I will ever carry.

I am grateful for every other gift He has given me. I am grateful for opportunities to learn, for certifications, for professional growth, for writing, for work, for this church journey, and for every door God has opened. But none of those titles mean much to me if they do not eventually lead back to this…

How did I serve?

Jesus said in Mark 10:45 that the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve. Jesus could have demanded every title. Instead, He washed feet. He touched lepers. He stopped for blind men. He welcomed children. He wept beside a grieving family. And eventually, He stretched His arms across a cross. The King became the servant.

So if somebody remembers me one day as a servant, I will consider that one of the greatest honors of my life.

Today also made me think deeply about loss, because loss changed our plans again this weekend. Loss does that. We make plans because we are human. We put things on calendars. We decide where we will go, what we will accomplish, and what tomorrow should look like. Then sometimes one phone call changes everything. The Bible is filled with people experiencing loss. Job lost his children, his possessions, and his health, and he wrestled honestly with God. Naomi lost her husband and her sons and returned home carrying such enormous grief that she told people not to call her Naomi anymore, but Mara, meaning bitter. David grieved. Jeremiah wept. The disciples watched Jesus die and believed for a time that everything they had hoped for was gone. And Jesus wept.

Faith does not require us to pretend loss does not hurt. Knowing heaven is real does not mean we do not miss people here. Believing in resurrection does not make the empty chair less empty tonight. Jesus did not stand outside Lazarus’s tomb and lecture everyone about having stronger faith. He showed them that grief would not have the final word.

That is Christianity.

We grieve, but not without hope. Grief and hope can sit beside one another. I know because they have been sitting beside one another in me for quite some time. Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted.” Sometimes He comes close through prayer. Sometimes through family. Sometimes through the person who unexpectedly checks on you. Sometimes through somebody helping with something you could not carry. Sometimes through the opportunity to serve another hurting person and suddenly realize that your own broken heart can still give love.

And sometimes, apparently, He meets you somewhere between Virginia Memorial Park, Mission Thrift, and Dave’s Hot Chicken.

Because God keeps meeting me where I am. That phrase has become another recurring sermon throughout this journey, but I want us to understand what it actually means. God meeting us where we are does not mean He intends to leave us there. Jesus meets us in grief and begins walking us toward healing. He meets us in fear and teaches us trust. He meets us in bitterness and teaches us forgiveness. He meets us in exhaustion and teaches us dependence. He meets us in our brokenness and begins putting pieces back together. That is grace. And then, as He heals us, He sends us back into the world carrying that grace. Which brings me right back to where Church #184 began.

We are the church. We are the church when we sit beside grieving families. We are the church when we use our own resources to help somebody else. We are the church when we notice the person working behind the counter and say thank you. We are the church when we choose compassion over convenience. We are the church when we have every reason to become bitter but allow Jesus to make us softer instead. We are the church when our own heart is hurting, and we still find enough love inside of it to help another hurting heart.

Sometimes the light of Jesus shines through the cracks.

Because when I look back at everything that could have broken me beyond all repair, I realize the greatest miracle of my life may not be that I survived. The miracle is that after everything, I still love. I still want to hug people. I still want to encourage strangers. I still believe people are worth knowing. I still believe kindness matters. I still believe tomorrow can be good. I still believe God is good. I still have hope.

THAT is what Jesus did.

Church #184 was everywhere today. And maybe that is exactly where church belongs. Out here. Among people. Among the hurting. Among those who need encouragement. Among those celebrating. Among those grieving. Among people who do not even realize that the kindness they just encountered may have been somebody’s Sunday sermon in action. So perhaps I do not need to tell you where I went to church this week. I need to tell you how I lived it. Because life is the sermon.

Every breath in my lungs is another opportunity to preach it. Every person God places in front of me is another opportunity to live it. Every morning I wake up is another chance to love a little more, serve a little more, forgive a little more, encourage somebody, spread some joy, offer some hope, and reflect a little more of Jesus than I did yesterday. And when you are constantly surrounded by loss, you begin to understand what an unbelievable privilege another day really is. Today is not something to get through. Today is something God gave us. So breathe deeply. Notice people. Say thank you. Encourage the stranger behind the counter. Tell somebody about Jesus.

And when plans change because loss has entered somebody else’s story, show up with whatever God has placed in your hands. Because we are the church. Our lives are the sermon. Jesus is the hope. And love is still one of the clearest ways this hurting world will ever recognize Him.

I do not know where the Lord will lead me for Church #185. But I know how I want to arrive. Grateful. Available. Teachable. Still willing to serve. Still carrying some broken pieces that Jesus is patiently putting back together.

Wherever He sends me next, I will show up with all of it.

Because He gave me another day to use it.

Love you all so very much,

Annie Stewart Lambert