But I couldn't solve this one on my own. I had no answers. I had finally come to the end of myself, and I needed help.
I called Sarah. She and I had become friends a couple years earlier, after meeting at a Gymboree class when our oldest were babies. We talked for a little while about nothing in particular, as I worked up enough courage and laid down enough pride to finally ask, "What church do you go to?"
"Oh, my church?" she asked, sounding a bit surprised. "It's called Grace."
The following Sunday, my family and I willingly walked through those church doors to attend a service for the first time since I was a teenager. I was terrified, but my desperation trumped my fear. All other options had been exhausted.
It seemed God was my last and only hope.
When I walked through those church doors with Travis and the girls for the first time in many years, fear filled my heart. For some reason, I was completely terrified. But even greater than my fear was my desperation. My last shred of hope was that God could help me. I was so surrounded by darkness—around and within—that I wondered if others could actually see it. I was a complete mess, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I had no more answers. All my options had been exhausted. And I could not save myself this time.
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