Her arm is draped over the comfy maroon chair he sits in. Her diamond wedding ring glitters in the church’s state-of-the-art track lighting. She wiggles her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. Though discreet, it isn’t. I’m reminded that I am alone in this sea of the congregation. She doesn’t know that her public display of affection toward her husband stirs the ache in my heart for intimacy. In weak moments when I’m in the silence of my little apartment, sometimes it overwhelms me. Slumping down with knees to chin, the weeping is so deep that it is silent as well. The ache to love, to be loved, to belong.

The wooden pews cause me to shift often so the bruising boards don’t leave uneven marks on my seat. Ladies on one side, guys on the other. A few couples with kids between them sit together. Hands remain in laps. Eyes with stealthily executed glances communicate the love and commitment to a spouse on the other side of the room. After the two hour church service on the Burma border, I return to my concrete room. The chill of the walls tries to balance the stifling heat. I am alone.

Whether State-side or halfway around the world, I am reminded that God made us to love, to be loved and to belong. He is the ultimate fulfillment but we ache for the human connection too.

As he strums the slightly out-of-tune guitar, we rise from the pews to sing. My eyes strain to read the Burmese and some words I just pretend to sing. The little girl next to me weaves her fingers into my free hand. My voice in worship stops to turn my face down to hers. Her beautiful, dark Asian features are beaming up at me. Less than a year ago, she spent her days begging on the street. It was a better life than the poverty of Burma and the physical abuse at home. Now she lives at Compasio’s Safe House. For a year I had the privilege of seeing her face change from hate to love. Now she belonged and she knew it.

Church is not a building; it’s a relationship with Jesus and others. The meal after the service consisted of coarse rice and oily fish curry. We eat side by side and conversation flows between the cheap plastic chairs. Some use the fingers of their right hand to ball up the rice and shovel it graciously into their mouths. Others use the easily bendable metal spoons. I sit soaking it in, only understanding snatches of speech. I’m out of place but I am embraced Sunday after Sunday as if I belong.

Today I was asked a completely unexpected question. The glittery diamond-band couple had already left church. The track lights had been dimmed as people flooded home to eat their separate meals. She approached me with a “hello”. For the past two years I have seen her and her family go from volunteering with the refugees from Burma to leading the service our church hosts for them.

“You’ve heard we are stepping down at the end of this month, right?” No, I hadn’t heard but I wasn’t surprised as they are a very busy family with growing kids. And then the question came if I would consider stepping into the role of leading the refugee ministry. It would be full-time, raise support, be on church staff.

What an honor but…No! No, no, no…it echoed through my head and then the two-letter word gently escaped my lips. She was hoping I would at least take some time to pray about it. But I already knew the answer, the why. Though I love them and I know the people love me, it just doesn’t feel like a fit. “My heart is over there.”

She smiled with understanding. When we belong we have the freedom to stay or to go, to say yes or to say no. Love has no distance. This is the life of risky faith.

Leaving through the church door, my heart soared with hope and expectation. The sun caught my glittering eyes as I smiled up to the sky. I know I am loved and that I belong in God’s family. Therefore, I can love.