I Skipped Church Today. On Easter.



I decided to stay home from church today, on Easter Sunday. Don’t tell my mother. I made the decision last night, after a Saturday filled with to-dos and social obligations that drained my energy, made me snap at my kid for getting out of the bath too slowly, and hate my husband.

“I love Jesus and everything… but I want to enjoy a quiet day at home tomorrow instead of going to church,” I said to my husband, “On Easter.”

We’ve been married now 16 years. We get each other. He believes strongly he is on the autism spectrum, and I believe he is, also. Our kiddo, who is seven, was diagnosed with autism when he was 2. I am… well, I’m just me. While my husband and my son can tell you all about what it’s like to have Autism Spectrum Disorder, sensory processing difficulties, and selective eating, I have a difficult time telling you about what it’s like to have the weird things I have. Paralyzing introversion at times. Social awkwardness. Social anxiety. Debilitating insecurity. Social hangovers. Sensitivity to loud places. An aversion to crowds.

There was the shopping trip to Walmart. I had a limited amount of funds, and a very long list. It was a challenge which required mental gymnastics, every decision carefully made, finding the things (couldn’t find them all), navigating the busy aisles. Then there was the birthday party, which required socializing with the kiddos’ friends’ parents. These are people you are going to hang out with at birthday parties and play dates for the next 10 years, so you’d better not foul up these relationships. (Do I have a beer even though I just learned the mom next to me is Mormon? How many more times am I going to call this dad by the wrong name?)

Church is not husband’s favorite thing to do. He works hard all week long, and needs his quiet alone time in the house to watch baseball and such. The kiddo hates going to the kids’ program at our church. It’s really loud, super-unstructured, and different every week, all of which is Kriptonite to autistic people. I have to give myself “the pep talk” to go to church, to walk in and say hello to people I know, to remember their names, to cope with the BOOM BOOM BOOM of the loud drums during the worship set and the racing of my own heart while wearing a nice, calm smile on my face. Crying nervous tears during worship, smearing my mascara. Shaking peoples’ hands with sweaty palms. (Why do I always forget to pack Kleenex in my purse? Do I just wave to the woman I know from Bible study, or do I go and sit next to her? Oh my Lord can I just go home now?) Exhausting.

It’s. Hard.

But it’s worth it. It really is. I know this.

I love the church. I love MY church, but getting there on bustling Sunday mornings like Easter is a very difficult thing to do for my family. And me.

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