A friend tagged me in a note on Facebook, in which she discussed her evolving religious views. She said she's no longer convinced that Catholicism is the way to go, and the conversation between her and those who commented on the note was overwhelmingly in favor of having spirituality without being part of a church.

I wondered how to counter that. "You need to be part of a fellowship-type group where people will encourage you to keep seeking Jesus when life seems to stink." "You need to be in a place where you can learn from others."

And I stopped. And thought.

I was miserable this past weekend. I did media for a women's conference and, though the parts about husbands and children didn't pertain to me, I figured it was good I was there because I was serving. One of the speakers talked about dealing with grief and the tragic loss of her four-year-old son. I normally would have put my mind in her place and mentally lived through as much as she had, but a wall went up around my heart.

On a break, I ran into one of my former staff leaders from when I was part of the Navigators. She asked how I was, and, as we passed, I confessed that I wasn't doing so well with "the singleness thing." She nodded sympathetically and I hurried back to my post.

I saw her again a while later and she pulled me to the side. "Hey--" she said, "I'm available to pray with you about that issue if you'd like." I nodded and we went to a semi-secluded area. She looked at me. "I feel like I know your heart, so what if we just pray?"

I was already at a breaking point. Someone cared enough to ask how I was? Someone cared that I answered that question truthfully? She began to pray and the tears started dropping. I only had one tissue and reused it to the point of disgustingness. She prayed about things I didn't know were even in my heart until they crawled out.

We talked a bit until she had to go back to one of our event's presentations; I walked down a long hallway to an out-of-the-way restroom and attempted to clean my face up. I tried to get my mind back on the conference and remembered the speaker's narrative about grief. And I just got mad. I know it's horrible that she lost a son...but I haven't even had a son. I know she went through a really rough time with her husband after that loss...but I haven't even had a husband. I know her daughters suffered and were confused...but I haven't even had daughters. Usually those "somebody else's life sucks more than yours" stories make me feel blessed by what I haven't lost...but this time, no.

When my eyes looked less like the Incredible Hulk's (the blue had gone to green, and the skin around my eyes was red and puffy), I slid back into the main conference room. The guys at the soundboard looked up at me--either in surprise at my long absence or in shock at my possibly-still-Hulkish eyes--and offered me their chairs since mine at the PowerPoint computer had become occupied. I just wanted to be invisible.

Actually, I really just wanted to get out of there and sob some more.

So I disappeared as quickly as I could, pulled up at home, and sobbed. Audibly.

I don't do that. I can't scream, I only yell when my students are involved, and I get to an annoying audio level only if I'm playing Mario Kart. I don't like to make noises.

But this person in my car--me--was crying out loud, wondering why this burden of singleness was hers to bear.

And, on that, why is it bad to be unhappy with singleness? I know that as Christians, we're to be content in all situations. But was the speaker lady content with losing her four-year-old son? Was she allowed to grieve?

Am I?

I felt raw for the rest of that day and was numb by Sunday. Then M called. "You've been on my mind the past couple days. How ya doin?"

Again--someone cared to ask, and cared that I answered truthfully.

I didn't want to talk then. Didn't want to start bawling. I had somewhere to go and had just tweaked my makeup.

I texted...something...and just asked that he'd pray.

Stupid friend was persistent. I elaborated a little, and he texted a message asking if he could call. I put off answering until I thought I could talk without crying. I was almost there when my phone rang, and it was him.

"I didn't say you could call," I half laughed and half cried.

He didn't care. And he didn't care that I couldn't talk for a quarter of our conversation because I was trying to do so without gasping for breath through my tears. And he didn't care that I'd told him most of these frustrations before. He just listened, then elaborated for me. "You want to get to the point of having something to lose."

Yeah.

I showed up at my next two appointments with tear streaks cutting through my foundation and blush, but feeling raw and semi-comforted was better than feeling numb.

So why be part of a church? What if you don't even fit there? What if no one notices that you skipped two Sundays in a row? Quit going?

Nope.

The majority of people who know my heart and give me wise counsel are ones I've gotten to know through Bible studies and other small groups. Some Sundays, I've skipped church to drive around and take pictures of God's creation--frosty trees, sun dogs in the sky. Sometimes, I praise Jesus more from my kayak than I do from a pew. But sometimes, I hide from God, don't understand what He's doing, and get upset with Him. And in those times, it's nice to have His people come alongside, help me up, and redirect me.

I think that's what people in a church are for.

A few weeks ago, my Bible study was going through an episode of Max Lucado's "Next Door Savior" in which one of the ending points was seeing God's love for us. And I really needed to see God's love for me.

Are You there? Do You love me? Do You see that life's not going the way I'd planned it? Do You see I don't get to use these gifts You've given me?

When I got home, I dug into a bag of Brach's conversation hearts. I smiled ruefully, thinking of last year when I told myself to imagine that each heart message was something God was saying to me. (Of course, only the "good ones" counted.)

It was maybe the fifth heart that I scanned before consuming, where I found the words, "I love you."

Huh. Funny.

A couple more hearts in, I found another one: "I love you."

Okay.

Okay.

And I haven't found any more since that night.

You prayed for me, didn't you? That God would get to me? He did.

You sit through another sermon on marriage and child-raising while holding a friend's baby, and you can pray all you want over that friend's kid. But when the baby cries and you return her to her mom, you're left with empty arms.

The message is relentless, and you think that even if it doesn't apply to you, you should store it away for possible future use--or to help a friend when she needs it. But eventually, you stomp your mental foot and say, "I want mine! My husband! My family! My home!" The tears start to come, and not welcoming them while in the midst of a crowd, you blink, brush them back, deaden your heart, and read some Bible commentary.

The sermon ends, you chat a bit, then find yourself alone. Couples walk out with babies, strong daddies holding diaper bags. You find yourself thanking God again for the friends who let you borrow their children--not merely hold them while being supervised, but actually walk around with them, hold them long enough that they get used to you, even change a smelly diaper.

This makes you miss your friends who struggled with infertility or with wanting to enter the mission field but not finding open doors. They're still friends, but they've since adopted or gone to a country far away.

"When is it my turn?" --not a whine, but a sob.

"What's wrong with me?"

"What are You teaching me?"

"What have I not learned?"