We are in a living room playing music for each other. 8 of us or so. Each time I hear one of these friends play a song, I get a peek into their heart. I see something–hear something–I didn't know was there.
We meet for weeks like this, sharing new songs and with them a part of our souls. We cry. We heal. We come together because we are all attending the same small church of 40 or 50 people and looking for a way to sing songs that don't belong in a church service. We are making music together and making connections, and we want to share all of this with the rest of our community.
The idea is called Bridge Songs. It will be a collection of songs from Urban Bridge Church.
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I tell her about a walk I remember where she and her husband confided in me and my wife about their doubts. Their open wounds. Their very human selves. I tell her it was the first time I had heard this vulnerability from older people I respected. People I viewed as impenetrable. A viel was lifted that day. If I remember right, we were literally crossing a bridge at the time. Stopped in the middle, watching water trickle over rocks below.
It is just then, as we share little stories we’ve both heard before, that the real loss hits me.
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This Sunday we voted to close the best church I’ve ever been a part of. Urban Bridge Church is ending after nine years. We were asked whether we should continue, or not. It was the hardest ‘no’ I’ve ever had to write. It feels painfully cruel and heart-poundingly necessary at once. My ‘no’ met with other ‘no’s’ to seal the fate of our little community.
I am proud of those no’s. They may turn out to be the most courageous thing our church has ever done
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The people around the table are old friends. New friends. Friends brought together by a church who has just collectively decided to close the doors. In as much as we ever had our own doors to close.
It in in this moment, breaking the bread in two and passing it around, the separation hits me. Arrow to heart. I look around and realize the weight of leaving this community.
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Birds leave nests and caterpillars become butterflies and seeds become flowers and it is all difficult–painful even. Yet it is all transformative in ways we cannot predict or even dare to hope for.
And yeah, sometimes you just wish things would stay the same. Stasis is easier. Stasis is comfortable.
Blog for Bleeding Heart!
You have something to say–why not say it here? Email your blog post idea to dave@bleedingheartart.space and let's chat.
