Honestly, I love the church.
I know that’s probably obvious. I’ve attended (mostly) from my exit from the womb, and have amazing memories and experiences tied into living alongside of a community of people who love Jesus. And, uh, I give them my time and energy (read: life calling), and they give me money to eat ice cream and buy shoes. So, that’s pretty awesome.
And honestly, I love the commitment the church has made to family.
But. But as an upper-20-something-single-female, can I say something?
I have a family, too.
And I don’t just mean the one that was given to me through my Blue Eyes and Last Name, although that family is pretty sweet. I mean the one my life has formed. Built. Created.
All over this country, every place I’ve lived, there are humans I’ve lived life alongside of. Who I’ve stood beside in uncomfortable shoes during wedding ceremonies, and beside later as I brushed gently the soft heads of babies that were truly hours old. Who I’ve sat with and mourned the bitterness of death, and sat with at Happy Hour after long workdays. Humans who I’ve lived with through inconvenience, through 3 am airport pickups, lugging boxes for a move, through sitting in the hospital awaiting an answer.
People I have deeply known and deeply loved.
People who have deeply known and deeply loved me.
These people are my family.
And while I love that we commit to families growing together, and leading together, and loving together, let’s not forget: Not everyone’s family is the same.
My family may look a little bit different, may be spread among miles and miles, but that doesn’t make them any less of a family. We may belong to each other through memories, and not through blood, but that doesn’t make the commitment any less.
Commitment. Living together despite brokenness. Baring both spirit and mistakes.
And gratefulness. To live among family, whether it fits the traditional definition, or just my own.
Live Color Fully 
❤
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