To Find What We Have Lost

I was young the first time I went to church. I don’t remember how it started or when it stopped, but at some point, we just... stopped going. It wasn’t until I was about twelve that I wandered back in again—this time on my terms, and this time, something stuck.

The first church I remember was a Lutheran one, complete with all the Sunday school classics—goldfish crackers, watercolor pictures of Jesus taped to the basement walls, and one of those plastic ride-on toys you spin around until you’re dizzy. I was too big for it, but I didn’t care. Upstairs, we’d sit on hard wooden pews with Bibles that had ribbon bookmarks—five per Bible, usually. I remember sitting and standing, and then sitting again, with absolutely no idea what was happening. One day, I started braiding those ribbons. That felt like something I could understand.

We were a “Christian family,” but not practicing. Not religious. We said grace on holidays. The church was background noise at best. That changed when I started attending a Pentecostal church. For the first time, I began to want to know more about God. Eventually, I found my home in the Church of God (Cleveland, TN), and although I’ve visited other denominations over the years, this tribe felt like mine. During college, my community, friends, and most profound spiritual moments were tied to the Church of God circle.

Church became the place where I made friends—and not just surface-level ones. These were people who sought me out. I wasn’t just welcomed. I was wanted. We worshiped together, learned together, sat in the front row together, and planned our post-service hangouts as if it were the highlight of our week—because it was.

It’s strange to say, but I never really felt disconnected from church until I went into ministry. That’s when I began to see behind the curtain—to witness the frailty of leaders I once idolized. The people I had placed on pedestals turned out to be tired, weathered, and flawed, just like me. Their failures and shortcomings were real. And mine were, too.

But God has a way of calling us back. He always has. Even when we feel too jaded to belong, too exhausted to hope, or too hurt to trust again—He makes a way home. I’ve learned to stop pretending I’m not broken and instead bring that brokenness with me into worship. After all, the church was never meant to be a showroom of saints. It’s a hospital for the soul.

Some of the most powerful spiritual moments in my life happened at summer camps. Those were holy ground seasons—formative, raw, and unforgettable. Maybe that’s why, pushing 40, I still find myself wondering how I can help youth camp happen each year. There’s just something sacred about helping a teenager encounter God for the first time.

Today, I’m at GracePoint Church of God in Pasco, serving as the Communications Pastor. What I love about GP is that I don’t have to fake it. I can let my gut hang out (figuratively... mostly). There’s space here for genuine friendship and authentic faith. I don’t have to earn it or manufacture it. It just is. These people care about me—not the title, not the platform. Me. Because church, at its heart, isn’t a building or a brand or a denomination. Church is the people. Always has been.

We come to church as we are. At least, we should. Like Moses in the desert, we come as wanderers—people who have somehow lost home and are trying to find it again. Something is missing in all of us, something we can’t name but feel. We come to church to admit we’re lost. To admit we can’t save ourselves. And in that brave confession, something beautiful happens.

We’re found.

If the church has hurt you, I get it. I do. But can I encourage you to try again? Not because the church is perfect. It’s not. But because God is still in the business of using imperfect people in broken spaces to bring hope, healing, and belonging.

You might find what you didn’t know you had lost.