O ALARM CLOCK RINGS. NO JOB IS waiting. The day lies ahead, full of possibilities. I rub the sleep from my eyes and stretch. It’s another Sabbath day.

The kids are hungry, so it’s off to the kitchen for breakfast. As I finish a bowl of cereal I hear the TV click on, and the sound of Saturday morning cartoons fills the house with the noise of mayhem and destruction—to a laugh track accompaniment. I close my eyes and shake my head. Whatever happened to the Sabbath in this house?

The Way We Were
There was a time when I couldn’t wait for the Sabbath; couldn’t wait to shower and dress in my best clothes; couldn’t wait for the church doors to open and let me in. All the familiar faces I loved were at church; people who had earned my trust, respect, and love. I belonged, as I had never belonged to anything before. I was a member of God’s family.

Oh, the joy of those Sabbath mornings! I recall all the fellowship lunches I shared with my “family.” How special and loving was the bond I had developed with these brothers and sisters. They loved me as the hymn said, “Just as I am.”

They sympathized when I told them about the years of abuse I had suffered at the hands of my father, grandfather, and brothers. They held my hand when I wept out the ugliness of my life before Christ: two rapes, three abortions, drug and alcohol abuse, countless suicide attempts, and a child I had given up for adoption. They praised God with me for my deliverance from the years I had spent in the occult. I had allowed myself to believe that maybe, for the first time, I had found a real “family.”

As I poured myself a cup of tea, I smiled to myself, remembering the things I had learned in church. I cherished every opportunity to serve God, to let Him know how grateful I was for His sacrifice on Calvary and for the life He was allowing me to live.

I had started out teaching kindergarten Sabbath school, and during the next 10 years I had directed Vacation Bible School, Community Services, personal ministries, and more. Faith and love for Jesus filled my heart.

Trapped
Then the bottom fell out. I made a mistake. I was fired from my job for stealing. Suddenly I was afraid to share this with my “family.” Something inside me said, You aren’t supposed to sin. You aren’t allowed to make mistakes. If they know, people won’t love you anymore.

My attorney said that with my family background and the emotional problems I still sought counseling for, a jury trial might be a good idea. But I was afraid that everything would appear in the newspaper. How would that kind of publicity affect my church? No, there would be no jury trial. Better just to accept the consequences of my sin.

I remember the call I made to the crisis line after I had actually seen myself put a gun in my mouth. The shame I felt was suffocating. I had thrown myself down on the floor in a flood of tears and pressed my face into the carpet. “Oh, Father, can You ever forgive me? I feel so lost, so alone, so filled with guilt and self-loathing. Help me, please!”

God held me closer than He ever had before. He didn’t forsake me—even in the midst of my sin. He stayed by me and held me up. He reminded me of the horror of my past and how He had made something beautiful of it.

When I realized that I was still God’s child, I wept again.

Going Down
I resigned all my church offices as soon as I lost my job. The pastor prayed with me and encouraged me to continue leaning on the Lord. The newspaper reporter who should have submitted the story of my arrest was out of town that week, so the incident never made the paper (thank God).

The court date came and went. God mercifully oversaw the decision: misdemeanor charges, a year’s probation, 40 hours of community service, and restitution. No prison. No felony record. I could finally start living again.

My husband and I had been studying the Bible with a group of friends every week, having fellowship and planning outreach projects. It had really been taking off. Months of Sabbaths had passed since my arrest, and I had spent them all in Sabbath school and church. But I had never shared my experience with my church family.

Then the church found out. The information had been disclosed at a church board meeting. Apparently the board members had been told about the episode in confidence, but one board member was “so upset” by the revelation that he had to share my crime with his wife. I had been betrayed. The pain I felt was indescribable.

One couple came to visit me after I had stopped attending church for several weeks, but I wasn’t emotionally strong enough to accept their expression of concern; I wasn’t even able to face them. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed in my bedroom and cried. I wrote them a letter and asked for some time. They gave it to me.

The rest of my church family stayed away, never called, never sent a card. Their indifference simply convinced me that the old tape I had heard eight months before this whole terrible ordeal began was accurate. It seemed that I had applied the term “Christian” too easily, too quickly, to some who didn’t really know what it meant.

But I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. I determined never to give my heart to a church again.

What Next?
I stopped attending church. It just seemed to happen. There was no reason to go back. I felt that no one from the church was missing me anyway. Or were they?

One month turned into three months. We continued having Bible study and fellowship with our Friday night study group. When I told them about my crime, they supported me. “We’re sinners too,” they said. They became concerned about the way the church was treating me (I’d been a member for more than 12 years). How would it treat them if they also made a mistake? they wondered. Their support for me seemed to make them outcasts as well. No one from the church called them, wrote them, or visited them either. Some continued to attend church. Others didn’t. All of us clung to the Lord and to each other.

Our kids stopped asking to go to Sabbath school, and soon they cultivated the habit of watching Saturday morning cartoons. My husband started sleeping in, and I just couldn’t find a reason (or the strength) to go back to church.

It hurt to see how the consequences of my sin were affecting so many.

I used to sing hymns, listen to sermons, kneel and pray in God’s sanctuary. I had been a member of the body. Now I was an amputated limb. How many times had I driven by the church when I knew no one would be there? I’d gaze longingly at the building that had been the hospital where I was reborn; the school where the Holy Spirit taught me; the place where I had fallen in love with Jesus. Now it was a cold building that offered no comfort, no warmth.

Taking Control
The teacup was empty again. Just like my Sabbaths, I thought.

I checked my watch: 9:30. Sabbath school’s just beginning. In an hour worship begins. Oh, how I miss worship! How I miss church! But no one’s missing me, I said to myself.

I headed for the bedroom to throw on some jeans and a T-shirt. As I pulled the shirt over my head, suddenly it hit me, a thought so astounding, so shockingly simple: Someone is missing me. Someone has been missing me every Sabbath. Someone who loves me more than my husband, more than my children, more than my study group, more than anyone.

“God is missing me,” I said to myself. “He’s missing me!”

My husband woke up. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“God is missing me,” I said. “All these Sabbaths I’ve been gone, God has been looking for me in His church on Sabbath. And it’s His church—not their church. He’s still there—I’m the one who left. He’s been waiting for me to let Him be my strength so that I can return and worship Him in His sanctuary.” Tears were falling down my face.

“How foolish I’ve been to allow people to keep me from God,” I said. “I want to go back to God’s house. I want to worship Him in His sanctuary. I want to take back what Satan has robbed me of: my Sabbath joy. I’ll make the Trinity my family. God will never betray me. Jesus can heal my heart, and the Holy Spirit can teach me to trust again.”

My husband smiled and squeezed my hand. “Go tell the kids to get ready,” he said. “I’m halfway there myself.”

My heart raced as I rushed into the living room and turned off the TV. “Hey, whatja do that for?” the kids protested.

“We’re going to church,” I announced. “Go throw some clothes on.” The kids started smiling as they jumped up and ran for their bedrooms. “Don’t worry about dressing up,” I yelled through closed doors, “just put on something decent and let’s go! We’re already late.”

I started crying again; this time they were tears of joy, love, and gratitude. “I want to be with You, Lord, in church, as soon as possible. I’m still a member of the family.”

What I’ve Learned
Generally speaking, the Seventh-day Adventist Church loves God’s Word, but we sometimes fail to love God’s people. We have truth, but we sometimes lack mercy. When I committed my crime, I expected to be disciplined, but I didn’t expect to be ostracized.

There are so many hurting, dying people in this sin-weary world. Their life experiences, like my own, are filled with trauma, scars, and behavior patterns that take years to overcome. They need safe places where they can heal, where God’s family can love them through their setbacks, not just celebrate their victories. They need a true representation of the Saviour in order to develop His character. They need the healing balm of the Holy Spirit to be administered through human hands, lips, and eyes.

I pray that my story will help those who have left the church—and those who remain indifferent. It isn’t important where this story took place, only that after it happened God restored my Sabbath joy and my faith in His church.

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Stephanie Matthews is a pseudonym.