By Malinda D. Just
“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. For by it the people of old received their commendation. By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible.” (Hebrews 11:1-3)
On Sunday, Nov. 30, 2025, my husband and I became members of the church we’ve attended for around five years. Without knowing our story, you might think, “What took you so long,” but for those with extra knowledge of our past, or for those with a similar tale, the delay might make sense - and maybe even feels short.
We arrived at this church three years after leaving our longtime former church in confusion, shock and deep, heartbreaking grief. In the earliest days after everything fell apart, we took refuge in a church 30 minutes from home. For 18 months, we were ministered to well and have a few lasting relationships years later, but the drive and the length of time we were away from home on a day of rest wore us down.
With the blessing of leadership, we attempted to graft in, once again, into a church located in the community where we live. Another 18 months went by in a church where we didn’t fit well, though we gave a dedicated effort to make it work. And then, in the fall of 2020, we stepped into the foyer of another new place, feeling every bit the visitor.
Working through the lasting wounds of church events that were traumatic for me didn’t go away as we continued to attend this new church. By that time, it almost felt embarrassing that I couldn’t just “move on” and “forget about it.” As much as I wanted to, my body and my brain just wouldn’t let me. Church had become hard, and being in a new place didn’t change that fact.
I’ve likened the experience to that of my adoption. The man who raised me — the one I cherish and love as my Dad — didn’t do the initial wounding. He didn’t know my mom and me when my biological father was making life-altering choices. But, in marrying my mom and adopting me, he took on all the trauma stored in my little life. None of it was of his own making, but he was the one that had to deal with all the hurt, pain, and confusion I brought with me.
It took years of me pushing against him, testing his endurance as a Dad, for me to truly trust his presence in my life - to truly trust he wasn’t going to leave.
And this is a similar task set before our new church family.
They didn’t do the initial wounding. They weren’t part of the leadership that set life-altering decisions in motion. They weren’t part of the shattering of trust and community that followed. But now, like my Dad, they are tasked with helping our family learn to trust again. For my part, trust in a church exists only as a tiny flicker of hope, and becoming members took a great emotional toll.
People asked me after we were finished if I felt relief, and the truth is, I don’t. It wasn’t the public speaking I was afraid of - it was the commitment. It’s the knowledge that sometimes the best intentions don’t stave off painful experiences. It’s the knowledge that behind closed doors, things can go really, really wrong, even in a church.
So, if I’m still afraid, why did we do it? The answer is, that flicker of hope. I’m confident that I’m not the source of it. This hope is beyond what I can muster alone. This is a hope sourced in Christ. It’s a hope that survives the tension of living life in between the Advents - between the already and the not yet — between the first and second coming of Christ.
Becoming members on Nov. 30 wasn’t accidental. I purposefully requested to become members on the first Sunday of Advent. On Hope Sunday. I needed the symbolism. For me, it meant something deeply profound to have the Hope candle burning as my husband and I shared our testimonies, told of how God is currently working in our lives, answered why we wanted to become members, and finally, as we made an official commitment to the body set before us.
The candle continued to burn as in turn, the body reaffirmed their own commitment to the church and also, to us.
This step is scary, but I hope it will also prove redemptive. I hope that I can eventually experience a rebuilt trust in church and church leadership. I hope this new commitment will be a positive step. I hope, I hope, I hope.
—————
Malinda D. Just is a writer and librarian living in Kansas with her husband and three teenagers. You can read more of her work at malindadjust.substack.com.
“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. For by it the people of old received their commendation. By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible.” (Hebrews 11:1-3)
On Sunday, Nov. 30, 2025, my husband and I became members of the church we’ve attended for around five years. Without knowing our story, you might think, “What took you so long,” but for those with extra knowledge of our past, or for those with a similar tale, the delay might make sense - and maybe even feels short.
We arrived at this church three years after leaving our longtime former church in confusion, shock and deep, heartbreaking grief. In the earliest days after everything fell apart, we took refuge in a church 30 minutes from home. For 18 months, we were ministered to well and have a few lasting relationships years later, but the drive and the length of time we were away from home on a day of rest wore us down.
With the blessing of leadership, we attempted to graft in, once again, into a church located in the community where we live. Another 18 months went by in a church where we didn’t fit well, though we gave a dedicated effort to make it work. And then, in the fall of 2020, we stepped into the foyer of another new place, feeling every bit the visitor.
Working through the lasting wounds of church events that were traumatic for me didn’t go away as we continued to attend this new church. By that time, it almost felt embarrassing that I couldn’t just “move on” and “forget about it.” As much as I wanted to, my body and my brain just wouldn’t let me. Church had become hard, and being in a new place didn’t change that fact.
I’ve likened the experience to that of my adoption. The man who raised me — the one I cherish and love as my Dad — didn’t do the initial wounding. He didn’t know my mom and me when my biological father was making life-altering choices. But, in marrying my mom and adopting me, he took on all the trauma stored in my little life. None of it was of his own making, but he was the one that had to deal with all the hurt, pain, and confusion I brought with me.
It took years of me pushing against him, testing his endurance as a Dad, for me to truly trust his presence in my life - to truly trust he wasn’t going to leave.
And this is a similar task set before our new church family.
They didn’t do the initial wounding. They weren’t part of the leadership that set life-altering decisions in motion. They weren’t part of the shattering of trust and community that followed. But now, like my Dad, they are tasked with helping our family learn to trust again. For my part, trust in a church exists only as a tiny flicker of hope, and becoming members took a great emotional toll.
People asked me after we were finished if I felt relief, and the truth is, I don’t. It wasn’t the public speaking I was afraid of - it was the commitment. It’s the knowledge that sometimes the best intentions don’t stave off painful experiences. It’s the knowledge that behind closed doors, things can go really, really wrong, even in a church.
So, if I’m still afraid, why did we do it? The answer is, that flicker of hope. I’m confident that I’m not the source of it. This hope is beyond what I can muster alone. This is a hope sourced in Christ. It’s a hope that survives the tension of living life in between the Advents - between the already and the not yet — between the first and second coming of Christ.
Becoming members on Nov. 30 wasn’t accidental. I purposefully requested to become members on the first Sunday of Advent. On Hope Sunday. I needed the symbolism. For me, it meant something deeply profound to have the Hope candle burning as my husband and I shared our testimonies, told of how God is currently working in our lives, answered why we wanted to become members, and finally, as we made an official commitment to the body set before us.
The candle continued to burn as in turn, the body reaffirmed their own commitment to the church and also, to us.
This step is scary, but I hope it will also prove redemptive. I hope that I can eventually experience a rebuilt trust in church and church leadership. I hope this new commitment will be a positive step. I hope, I hope, I hope.
—————
Malinda D. Just is a writer and librarian living in Kansas with her husband and three teenagers. You can read more of her work at malindadjust.substack.com.
