Leaving a church you love is difficult. What a small word, "difficult". Nine letters, three syllables, a small vague word full of heartbreak. It is October now. And in October of last year, I left a church I loved. It was the right decision. But it was "difficult". Dave and I left at the end of October. At this time last year, we were in the final throes, and I was thrashing, in agony, miserable. The church I loved and the people I loved were hurting me. And worse, the wounds were inflicted with imperfect judgement and the best intentions. Some mornings, I still wake up angry thinking about it. Misguided love is a dangerous thing. For some reason, it helps to know that it hurts so much because I loved them, that church, so much. My heart was there, had grown vessels and nerves, was pumping blood, deep-set in the chest of that church. And then when we left, I had to cut it out. I sometimes wonder if my heart wi...