Have you ever run away from home?
I did.
I don't remember how old I was, but I was old enough to know my way around and to know better than to do what I did. I don't remember what the argument was about. Probably something silly like cleaning my room, the type of music I listen to, or an all to common one in my relationship with my parents, a disrespectful attitude. Whatever it was, I was mad. I tossed a few things in my back pack and rode off on my bike without telling anyone where I was going. I remember it was evening, and the sun was sinking low as I rode off toward the airport road. This was in the days before cell phones so I'm sure when they realized I was gone it was quite frightening for my parents. Of course in my mind at the time I pictured them not caring at all. As I rode, I fumed. "They were wrong. I was being mistreated. I could get a job. I could go to my sisters house..." the options seemed endless.
I felt like that last night. You see as a church planter you take on the role of being a child again. When you decide you are going to partner with a "parent church", you accept all the responsibilities that come along with being the "daughter church". It's an uncomfortable place to be once you've been out on your own making decisions for yourself for almost fifteen years. Parents and children don't always see eye to eye. And when there's discord in the relationship the easiest thing to do would be to pack my back pack, hop on the bike and take a ride. "They were wrong, I was being mistreated, I could get a job, I could go to my sisters house..." the options seem endless.
That night as I rode away and I went through all the options, I realized that the only real option was to go home. No matter how wrong they were, or how mistreated I felt, they are my parents and I love them. Deep down inside I knew that they loved me too. In the end, it wasn't about being right, or respected it was about a mutual love for one another. I don't remember exactly what happened when I got home. (Maybe I've blocked it from my memory?) I know that it didn't go as I'd hoped. But if I were writing the script now it would go something like this:
As the sun began to set, I made a u-turn and set my bike toward the pinkish purple glow instead of away from it. My pulse slowed with the pace of the bike as I neared the dip before the turn for my street. An ache in my heart manifested itself through hot tears running down my cheeks. Even though I still felt right, even justified in my choice, I knew that I was taking the high road by coming home. I would be concerned more for the worry of my parents than for my own position, because love supersedes all viewpoints. The gentle bump, bump of both tires coming up on the sidewalk signals the end of my rising and I come into the house humble and meek, and still just a tad bit "righteous". I see only my mom sitting at the table, praying because my dad has gone out in the car looking for me. When she looks up at me, I don't see anger but instead love. She moves to hug me and I accept her embrace. Just then Dad comes in and joins in the hug. All frustration, anger and hurt melts away and the tightening of my heart begins to fade into naught. My dad finally speaks saying simply, "I'm sorry." My words echo his own and we stand locked in our family embrace knowing that "...the greatest of these is Love."
My prayer is that this is how our story ends with our "mother church". That seeking to be understood is put second to seeking to understand, that we value lost souls above the comfort of the saved, that the words of Jesus as he prayed for all believers to be one would not be lost, but embraced, and that love would get the last word.
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