I recently had the opportunity to attend a Sunday morning service at the church where I grew up, something I haven't been able to do since I was 22, when my husband was an seminary intern there. There was something precious about the familiarity of the drive and the direction of the sunlight, the fact that the childcare worker in Adelaide's room knew exactly who I belonged to, and she shed a tear over the memory of my grandmother, Addie Mae, who taught five-year-old Sunday School at that same church for 55 years. How grateful I am for the welcome reminder of the faithfulness I inherited, for the legacy she spotted in my eyes and in a bouncing three-year-old girl in a twirly blue dress.

The rustling of Bible pages across the sanctuary sounded exactly the same as it did when I sat in that very room as an eight year old who'd decided Jesus was the only one she ever wanted to follow, as a high schooler trying to not be distracted by the cutest boy in the world, as an optimistic college student, engaged to that cute boy and eagerly awaiting a life in ministry, and as a newlywed, crushed by the cruelty of her first job and begging God to provide. Now I'm thirty, and Sundays have been filled with more tears than I would have predicted when I was younger and believed Sundays were for taking fun notes and wearing dresses and eating at Luby's. But that familiar sanctuary helped me remember eight-year-old Caroline, who only wanted to follow Jesus, always and forever. Because of His unwavering affection for me, I am still that girl.

Thankfully, I am currently in a season when I look forward to and enjoy Sundays. But if you aren't, if Sundays these days are hard for you, I pray you find unexpected reminders of your story and sacred heritage in the family of God. Press on. 

Originally posted on my ministry Instagram account @writercaroline.