When my parents answered God’s call to start a church, our home became a place of meeting for a season. Saturdays were for cleaning. Our crumb-laden, toy-strewn home transformed into a tidy space for our church gathering; my bedroom became the nursery and our family room for corporate singing. My mom managed to open her home weekly with my 2-year-old sister in tow, who was surely pulling books off the shelves and de-organizing the tupperware in the kitchen drawers. The rest of us—ages 8, 6, and 4—worked alongside my mom, but the result of a clean home was certainly a product of her rather than us.  

As our church worshiped it outgrew our small home and soon began meeting in a rented space. Our weekends transitioned from preparing our home to preparing our hearts. These mornings were a dash to tame my unruly curls and slip into an outfit that wasn’t deemed ‘every day.’ They were cold-bowl-of-cereal and buckle-your-shoes-in-the-car type mornings. They were a happy, exhilarating rush of being included in preparing for our church gathering. Alongside other church members my age, I set up chairs, folded bulletins, organized the coffee cups, and snuck 1 or 2 (or 6) sugar cubes.

My parents’ commitment to the church wasn’t something that came easily, perfectly fitting in their schedules. Our church grew and friendships deepened because of their obedience to God’s call for believers to gather together, bringing their tired selves each week and allowing God to work. Sundays came after a week of homeschooling, my mom chauffeuring us to various soccer games and piano lessons, providing us with three meals a day (plus at least that many snacks), and grocery shopping in an age with no grocery pick-up. 

We saw that the church was a people who worshiped and worked, who knew the joys and sorrows that occurred that week, prayed, sang, and sat under Bible teaching—together. We were a church family. These friends whom I served alongside weren’t only seen on Sundays, our families often shared meals during the week or met for family bike rides during summer evenings. 

As I look back on my childhood, I see how my parents’ faithfulness and their inclusion of me and my sisters in God’s calling on our lives left an imprint that has forever shaped my view of church membership. As a mom now myself, I know the struggle of arriving at church on time. Too often my son’s nursery number flashes on the projection, leaving me to rescue and chase him in the foyer. I frequently think of streaming the service; my son wouldn’t miss his dearly-needed nap, and I could absorb the sermon. 

But then I’m reminded of what it means to be the church. Even when my time in corporate worship is short, or when my mind is half-working from being up most of the night, my heart still is nourished by hearing brothers and sisters sing truths and lifting my voice to the Lord. I see dear friends, and we share about our week. But just as importantly, my son also experiences this time. As he grows, he will see the fruit of Christian community in our lives. What would it look like for a church to have no babies and toddlers? 

We see the church’s strength when it is mobilized to soothe distraught babies for exhausted parents and to teach the gospel to curious young minds. It is vibrant with tiny voices singing along with much older ones. The youth of the church often reminds me of the essentialism of the Christian community. I recall two students’ testimonies during baptism: they articulated how the church shaped their love for Jesus and expressed their faith in a way that renewed in my heart the wonder and beauty of Christ. 

I want my son to know that our heritage and calling are the same as the men, women, and children of the early church. Today we still say:

“Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how to stir up one another to love and good works, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near” (Hebrews 10:23-25).

The church is not merely some ancillary part of life, it is central to our lives, the very heartbeat of the Christian walk. She has met through persecution, war, plagues, and peace. I want my son to see our family follow suit, to treasure obedience over convenience. 

We don’t need Sunday mornings to be picturesque with a warm breakfast and an (actually) hot cup of coffee while our babies sleep. We ought to do what it takes to arrive on time—eating a cold breakfast and bringing ourselves to the fellowship when we are weary. We want our churches enriched by membership of all ages. Our children’s time in nursery isn’t just about being occupied long enough for teaching time (or getting them sick, again). Those other little kids will hopefully become like my childhood friends, providing friendship with whom they will serve, share meals, and learn to love our God, together. 

Perhaps those cold-cereal-breakfasts provided the greatest nourishment of all; there is a treasure of babies at church.