I was sat in the crèche room at church this morning, listening to the service being piped in (the crèche room is a windowed room inside the main sanctuary) and watching the kids play, thinking about the point of me being there.

Let me elaborate. Bethany had got a puzzle to the head so had demonstrated the full capacity of her lungs to the congregation, while Sam was trying to solemnly lead prayers. Caleb would just shout at us when we tried to sing along to the worship songs (he does this at home too). Lily was being her adventurous little self in a room not entirely built for that exploration.

I was half listening to the service, half worshipping, half praying, half being part of the church community. If we had left without joining others for drinks outside, you would have hardly known we were there (not accounting for the screaming).

So what is the point? What is the point in being physically present at church but mentally, even spiritually, absent? Now that so many services are streamed online, one could argue that there isn’t a point. You could join a service at a time that suits you, where the kids were absent and you could properly engage.

But I think there is something so valuable to attending a church service, no matter the season you’re in. Not only does it demonstrate to the children that we are a family that goes to church (and they better get used to it, since their dad is going to be a vicar). But it also demonstrates to everyone, including yourself, that church is not just a place for when life is good, quiet, in order. It’s not even just a place for when you’re feeling close to God, or even believing in God.

Church is for all seasons, all life stages, all of life. We join together as God’s people in times of celebration and grief. When life is peaceful and when life is chaos (and life with 3 under 4 feels like chaos). When life is all going to plan and when it’s all falling apart.

So I’m not saying that we should force ourselves to attend church when we’re feeling vulnerable or really not up to it. But church should feel like a place that we can go to when we’re vulnerable, even when we’re suffering.

So bring your chaos, bring your burdens, bring your screaming children. God’s house is the place to be, He loves and longs for you to be there.

If you know me, you (hopefully) know that I am a Christian. I was raised as a Christian, I made the decision to follow Jesus for myself at 13 and I’ve been a believer since then.

However, there have been days/weeks/months/years where I have struggled to believe. Times when I have doubted the very existence of God and times when the Christian story of God coming to Earth to live, die and live again, has seemed absurd. My faith has sometimes been smothered by the evil in the world, by harm caused to others, by natural disasters… Reasons, I’m sure, why many people do not believe in God in the first place.

Many Christians go through these seasons. We may call it “the dark night of the soul” or “the wilderness”. Whilst you may see these topics in seminars at Christian conferences, we’re rarely brave enough to admit to our struggles and doubts to those closest to us. I’ve only very tentatively shared my occasional doubts with my husband, afraid of the shame, judgement or simple confusion I would receive from others.

But despite my occasional lapses in faith, to steal a catchphrase from the wonderful late Rachel Held Evans, “on the days I believe…” my relationship with God is happy and intimate. For so long, He may be silent, but then I will feel, rather than hear, His whispers in the most ordinary things.

Like after feeding Bethany or Lily in the night, when I hold them for a moment, heavy with sleep, against my chest and I’m overwhelmed by a sense of love, peace, joy, of God with me.

Or when I’m daydreaming out the window and a flock of birds, black against the baby blue sky, flies together in perfect synchronisation, and I see the order and beauty that God intended for our world.

Or when I read a great book, listen to anything by Lin Manuel Miranda, or I’m moved by a piece of art, my mind is blown by the human creativity that reflects that of our Creator.

Then there is Jesus. No matter how many times I struggle with the idea of an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent God, I cannot break away from the person of Jesus.

His radical welcome of people of all kinds; his healing power; his heart for justice and righteousness; his compassion for the outcast and needy. The fire in his heart and the cool balm of his presence.

There is no one like the historical Jesus and, as I reflect on Him, I see God. That’s how I keep coming back, why I keep fighting for my faith, and sometimes it really does feel like a fight.

But, in God’s kindness, despite the times I’ve denied Him, questioned Him, cursed Him, He keeps meeting me. In my darkest places, He’s there, even if I can’t feel Him. It is never Him that moves, but me, and time and time again, He illuminates the path back to Himself.

God is so good, so kind, so extravagantly generous. But I know there will be times in the future when I doubt this, and doubt He’s even real. I wish that wasn’t the case, but I have been on this journey for a while, I know it well. There are peaks and troughs. Mountains and valleys. There is brightness and darkness. He is the only constant. He is endlessly faithful, even while I am faithless. How amazing is that?