I Was Glad When They Said, “Let Us Go Into the House of the Lord”

“I was glad when they said unto me, Let us go into the house of the Lord.” — Psalm 122:1 (KJV)

There are a lot of places I enjoy being. Ok, not really….. maybe like 2…. home and work!

I love quiet evenings with my Bible and coke zero. I love spending time with people I care about.

But there is one place my heart longs for more than anywhere else.

The house of the Lord.

When Sunday morning comes, there is an excitement in me that I can’t really explain. It’s not because everything in my life is perfect. Most weeks, I walk through those church doors carrying burdens, temptations, worries, regrets, unanswered prayers, and exhaustion.

But somehow, the moment worship begins, something changes.

It’s hard to put into words.

It’s like my soul finally exhales.

The weight I’ve been carrying all week suddenly doesn’t seem quite as heavy. My focus shifts from everything that is wrong in my life to everything that is right about God. The noise in my mind gets quieter. The anxiety eases. My heart softens.

I feel His presence in a way I don’t experience anywhere else.

Not because God only exists inside church walls—I know He is with me everywhere—but because there is something powerful about gathering with other believers who are all lifting up the same Savior.

When the music starts and voices fill the room, I remember who He is.

I remember who I belong to.

And for those few moments, nothing else seems to matter.

As someone in recovery, church has become more than just something I attend.

It’s where I’m reminded why I’m fighting.

It’s where my hope gets renewed.

It’s where my heart gets recalibrated after spending a week in a world that constantly pulls me in the opposite direction.

There have been weeks when work has kept me from being there. Like today.

Anytime I have to miss notice it.

It’s not that my faith disappears.

It’s that something feels…off.

The whole week feels different.

I find myself more distracted. More irritable. More emotionally drained. Temptations seem louder. Stress seems heavier.

Church isn’t a checkbox for me.

It’s nourishment.

Hebrews tells us not to neglect meeting together, and I understand that verse differently now than I ever have before. God wasn’t giving us another rule to follow—He was giving us a gift.

He knew we would need each other.

He knew we would need encouragement.

He knew we would need to be reminded, week after week, that this world is not our home.

There are many Sundays when tears rolled down my face before the first verse is ever over.

Not because I’m sad.

Because I am overwhelmed by His goodness.

Overwhelmed that after every relapse…

After every failure…

After every half-hearted attempt…

After every moment I ran from Him…

He still welcomed me back.

Every single time.

Church reminds me that God’s mercy didn’t run out this week.

His grace is still sufficient.

His love is still pursuing me.

His Spirit is still changing me.

I pray I never become casual about gathering with God’s people.

I pray worship never becomes routine.

Because there is nowhere else on earth where my soul feels so at home as it does in the presence of my Savior.

And until the day I worship Him face to face in heaven…

You’ll find me rejoicing every time someone says,

“Let’s go to church.”