It was an interesting weekend. I went to a PCA church a few miles from my house. Big church, maybe not quite "mega". I went to the early service, but it was still pretty full.

The circumstances that got me there were a bit odd. I'd been thinking of going for a while, but I didn't (and still don't) want to have the fight with my wife. I thought about going clandestinely; since the early service at the PCA church is only a half hour later than the service I usually attend at the nearby Episcopal church, I could "get away" with that, but didn't like the hypocrisy and dishonesty involved. So by Sunday morning, showered, dressed and running late for early service at my usual spot, I had talked myself out of adventuring elsewhere.

But for some reason no one was at my usual spot. No one. Not a car.

So I kept driving. Why not, right? Weighed my options. Turn around, go home. Surpise hon, no church today, let's just hang out; OK. Or I could pick up the cell phone; looks like they cancelled, gonna try the PCA church, we'll fight when I get home, OK? OK. Well, why do that? Just go check it out. Maybe it's not for me. Maybe no more will need to be said about it. Because it's only the deepest longing of my heart to go there, right? (Well, the deepest longing besides avoiding ANY ACTUAL IN-DEPTH CONVERSATION WITH THE PERSON I'M MARRIED TO. But let's move on.)

Predictably, the service was moving and hit home. Predictably, it would be the Sunday they served communion so it would run long and I'd have to sit there and think about whether I was "supposed" to take communion here. Unpredictably, I sat there in my khakis and sweater amongst the suburban Republicans while they passed the bread and wine around and I had to work hard not to actually sob and I wished the girl up front would just stop playing that damn violin so I could just catch my breath for a second. I let the body and blood pass me by because I couldn't face them. I felt that if I took that step I couldn't hold on to maybes and what-ifs anymore. Couldn't lie to Mrs. VoW and to myself about what I really want to be. (Or am I lying to myself about that now? Oh, it's slippery, it is...) Most of all I'd be forced to tell her where I'd been and what I'd been doing.

I had this crazy idea of going up to the deacons after the service and asking them to hide me there in the church. "Call my wife and tell her where I am and that I love Jesus and I won't come home unless she's nice about it!" A theoretically grown man with children, having thoughts like this about his family. This is a nice woman. She's not an ogre. But her tears, her disappointment, are a miserable scourge to me. I see her pain and I just hate myself.

So of course I didn't hang around to talk to deacons or anyone else. I didn't quite run over anyone getting to my car and drove home as quick as I could, trying unsuccessfully to prepare myself to discuss my visit to the church with Mrs. VoW. She called my cell as I was driving up our street to inquire what was taking so long and that broke any nerve I might have worked up during the drive home, so I made up some story about a long-running service and socializing afterwards and looked her in the eye and told myself I was being a nice guy.

Well, in a word, oops. And then Tim Challies goes and publishes something like this. And I realize the nature of the problem, vividly, unmistakably: sinful disbelief. I think it's fair to say I don't trust God to take care of Mrs. VoW and the little Vessels.

I know! I'll just start trusting God more! Here goes! NNNNGGGGGHHHH.......