In May of 1997, I graduated from Baylor and set off to adult. I quickly learned that adult-ing is really not all that it is cracked up to be. I moved to Alvin, TX for the summer and worked in full-time youth ministry. Lucas and I saw each other on the weekends and while he loved playing sports with “my kids” he wasn’t quite sure about the schedule. His family and personal reference point was the chemical industry. He knew labs and turnarounds and emergency calls. Lock-ins and mission trips and 10 day trips on charter buses in Colorado were new territory. I tried to teach him with great excitement but until that point in his life, church was a Sunday morning thing not a 24/7 way of life.

August brought a hard decision. With my imminent departure out of state and his junior year at TAMU ahead, we decided to stay together. From our first hard conversation, we made a commitment that as long as we were having fun, we would be together. Long distance relationships are really anything but “fun,” but we wanted to try. So we called and wrote letters (yes, young people, we used handwriting and stamps) and even discovered this amazing tool called email. I did not have a computer in my dorm, so I would walk to the computer lab and hold my breath with excitement while I opened this thing they called an inbox. I still have all of those emails printed in a book. We needed to get a life. Only in the midst of young love can you find that many things to talk about. Knowing what I do about my husband, I still can’t imagine how he tolerated that many words.

Before I go on, let me give you a very unscientific description of seminary. From my experience, people go to seminary for 3 primary reasons:

1. They are called by God to ministry and gifted with a specific skill set. Seminary is a place of clarification and training.
2. They are unsure about their future and in light of unease, no one argues when you say you are “called by God.” Seminary is a good place to delay next steps.
3. They are wounded and broken in profound ways. “Being” spiritual is a lovely way to hide in the safe world of professional Jesus and avoid hard interior work.

I can honestly say that #1 and #3 were equally true for me. I knew that I had some serious festering wounds that needed attention. The world told me I was capable and gifted. My heart told me that I was broken and useless. The Church convinced me that they could “fix” me.  Within weeks of life in a new state, with no one I knew and a constant state of spiritual roller coastering, this year was setting up for a crash and burn of epic proportions.

After only about 6 weeks at school, I developed physical symptoms that were a cause for alarm. This required further testing, a trip by my mom for a procedure and ultimately surgery over Christmas break. Without an understanding of the spiritual and emotional changes that were taking place in my life, my body began to take the stress and internalization out on itself.

In a brilliant attempt to find my space and place and independence, I called Lucas and told him we should not date anymore. Few times in my life have I seen him mad. And Lucas mad is really disturbing. It begins with a 3 sentence moment of a passionate raised voice. There is no colorful language, just a clear expression of disgust. This is then followed by an eerie calm that in someone with my wiring would mean that a mass murder is about to occur. In Lucas, it is simply a processing tool. There is no screaming. There is no throwing. There is no door slamming.  There is no sarcasm. It’s absolutely bizarre.

After the three sentence fit,  and one more questioning phone call, the calm commenced with these words, “Do what you need to do, I’ll be here waiting.”

Damn, Lucas Hilbrich. Nice mic drop.

The rhythm of the liturgical seasons reflect the rhythm of life — with its celebrations of anniversaries and its seasons of quiet growth and maturing. For me, the liturgical calendar gives me an annual guide to tell myself and the world the recurring, alive story of the Gospel of Jesus. With each season, we experience the life of Jesus in the light of our own life. 

Just as our lives have big days of celebration, so does the Church calendar. Christmas, Easter – these days we know. There are other seasons that are less recognized, yet no less important. The season that follows in our exploration of the calendar is Ordinary Time. This is a time for growth and maturation, a time set aside to ponder mystery.  But there’s nothing ordinary about Ordinary Time, as when leaned into, this is a time that focuses on reflecting and celebrating our call to follow Jesus day by day.

Ordinary Time, meaning ordered or numbered time, is celebrated in two segments: from Epiphany to Ash Wednesday; and from Pentecost to the First Sunday of Advent. This makes it the largest season of the Liturgical Year. The color that represents this season is green, the color of hope and new growth. 

As I have come to rely more and more on the story of Jesus as told in the Church calendar year, I find that if we as faith participants in the body are to mature in the spiritual life, we have to learn to descend the spiritual mountain peaks of Easter and Christmas in order to dwell and rest and grow in the meadows of Ordinary Time. So often, “spiritual” life equates to emotional highs. Ordinary Time forces us out of the big movements of Church energy into the daily discipline of a formational and grounded faith. 

In my first season of Ordinary Time, life was full. Life was preparing me for the coming seasons. In laying the groundwork of spiritual development, Ordinary Time gave me the undergirding to face the future. I believe this was the exact season of contemplation and growth that God ordained for me. The fruit of my contemplation was my connectedness with the world and with the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. You see, this next season was anything but ordinary.

It was the Spring of my last semester at Baylor. I was ready to move on with life and head to Kentucky to be a grown up. I was still active in my sorority and being a senior, I was present in body but hardly engaged. We had our annual pledge dance scheduled for February 15th and while I planned to attend, I was not in a rush to find a date. I was just fine winning the costume contest all by myself. I had recently turned over my officer position to a precious sophomore and because of the transition, we spent many hours together. During that time she told me that she had a “tall friend” that I needed to meet. To a girl that is 6′, this is music to your ears.

Our mutual friend arranged for us to go to the dance on Saturday, February 15th. He was a sophomore at Texas A&M in College Station which is about 90 miles from Waco. When we talked on the phone about arrangements, he hesitantly asked if I had plans for Friday night. It was Valentine’s Day. To hear him tell this story, you would be belly laughing because he points out this could have gone south. Fast. One, who goes on a FIRST date on Valentine’s? Two, if she had no plans on Valentine’s perhaps there was a reason. Romanic, this guy…

We decided he would come to Waco on Friday night and we would have dinner at my apartment the night before the party. I was nervous. I am not a cook. I am not cook. Oh, did I mention I am not a cook? Why did I decide that cooking dinner for a blind date on Valentine’s was a good plan? I still question my decision making on this, but as the future would prove, he is always prepared for anything and ate “extra” before his arrival.

At this point in my life I has 3 NEVERs. I would never date a guy that drove an oversized truck. I would never date an athlete. And I would never, never ever, date an Aggie. This is where God lets out a big gigantic laugh. Rolling on the floor laugh. When the mystery man arrived, I could hear his truck a block away. The tires were so jacked up I needed a ladder to enter. His 6’4″ athletic build told me rule #2 was gone and the obnoxiously maroon sticker that obstructed the back window of said truck was the ultimate deal breaker. And, he had bad shoes. Really bad shoes.

This sounds like love at first sight, right?

If you know this blind date of mine from 21 years ago today, you know that it worked out. But he would affirm, and I would laugh with each story, that had we each set out on February 13, 1997 to describe the attributes and gifting of our future spouse, the picture would have been different. I would have coordination with a ball. Any ball. He would like glitter. And a few other things.

But on that night, 21 years ago, there was a look. There was moment that changed everything. Forever. Into my planned and singleminded world came this man (ok, he was pretty much a tall boy) with his own hopes and dreams and goals and hurts. And while we said we were not going to “get serious,” something happened on that blind date. The NEVERS in my life began to fade away in the face of a partner. Until that moment, I didn’t know what it meant to trust someone with my brokenness.

That’s what love is. Its not the cards or the roses or even the best gifts. It’s not the moments that take your breath away. Our love story is about two people that have very different gifts and wirings coming together to form a one-of-a-kind force that enters into brokenness and says we will fight for each other no matter the darkness that comes our way.

I can assure you that if we knew all those years ago that hair and trucks would be NOTHING in the face of the life we would live, our naive selves may have balked. But we have now been a team longer than we were individuals, and I can assure you that Lucas Hilbrich was nothing that I asked for and everything I needed in my life.

I remember waking up on Monday and I thought that I was dreaming. Seeing the clock and hearing the emergency response alarm, I realized that this was indeed a living nightmare. I stumbled downstairs to find Lucas at the kitchen counter planning his attack. There were things that had to secured before he left the house. The debris in the yard needed to be cleared. They needed him at work and while steady, the overnight accumulation of rain was manageable. While the streets seemed passable, the return trip home from the plant would be questionable. He packed a large bag, complete with air mattress, pillow and days of clothing.

Our tiny houseguests played with our 3 toys in the hours before sleep. Our house was not equipped for a prolonged sleepover. While Ally bathed and washed their hair, I sipped coffee waking my brain for action. After calling for reinforcements, the decision was made to move the party to a friend’s house in our neighborhood. The girls would have toys and I needed to be present with our people. At 8:55am I posted a note to my Facebook page that read:

“League City friends. We know you want to help, but how? We are opening the doors of Ecclesia – Clear Lake at 11am as a donation center. Needs include personal hygiene, blankets, pillows, underwear, socks and cleaning supplies. We will coordinate with area shelters to fill in needs that they have. Our address is 218 Clear Creek Ave. Help us spread the word!”

Our church is not equipped to house a shelter. We do not have a full kitchen. We do not have showers. We have 5 small classrooms, a worship space and a porch. After my experience the night before, I knew that we could sort stuff and as needs arose, we could help match resources with supplies. By the time our doors opened at 11, there were 4 shelters in our immediate area. I still don’t know how the word spread. But by 11:01 supplies were coming in. Not long after that, strangers that I had never met were walking in our worship space and their first question was always, “How can I help?”

The first few hours were hectic. We had no idea what we were doing. Ally slapped some signs on our chairs and we started sorting. One friend took the helm as social media director. She read the ever growing list of needs and we kept responding. AJ took over my phone and was directing the telephone traffic. By 11:29, we knew the  specific supplies that the shelters needed and our first post went on our church page. Eager Texans in big trucks were appearing in our midst with the desire to brave flood waters to assist.

Within hours we realized that our hotels were acting as shelters, as many waded out of water and arrived with nothing. To further complicate the situation, roads were impassable, so re-supply trucks for food and consumables were non-existent. Our rag-tag group of volunteers became front line care givers. We could hardly hang up the phone before someone else requested water or shampoo or food. We would take what we had and go to them.

Throughout the day, the rain kept falling. Creeks were rising, streets were filling again. Around 2pm, the City of Dickinson called for a mandatory evacuation. Dickinson borders League City. This was our community. While roads were impassable and we could not see it with our own eyes, we knew this was disastrous. Things were worse than we could imagine. We worked hard for the next few hours, but we knew that forecasters were predicting another night of heavy rain, so we proceeded with caution. By 4:27pm, we posted on Facebook that our doors would close at 5. We all knew that it could be another long night and we needed to get home safely.

I remember locking the door at 218 that night and driving home. Lucas was able to make it home safely, so the four of us ate what we could find in the pantry and pretended that the sirens were just test warnings. After 48 hours of tornado alarms, you become immune. What would have had you under the stairs, now had you glad that it was 3 miles away. As I tried to prepare for the night, I sent my storm buddies this message, “I just can’t. If Harvey takes me out in my sleep, know I lived well.” The thought of another night of terror was more than my heart could take.

I watched the water rise until 12:14pm. It was then that I tapped out for the night. I closed my eyes for a few hours. At 6am Tuesday, I found both girls on my floor and Lucas preparing to wade to work. Many of the main roads were as bad as Sunday morning. We started answering calls at home, but by 10am, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I was not going to be irresponsible, but I could not watch another minute of the news. This was devastating and hopeless and the only way was through it…together.

And there was evening and there was morning – the third day.

When I decided that full time ministry was indeed a call to embrace, I began preparing my seminary applications. Having only been exposed to the United Methodist tradition, I immediately looked for a school that offered a Master’s in Youth Ministry. The associate pastor at the church that I interned with was a recent graduate of Asbury Theological Seminary in Wilmore, Kentucky. Coincidentally, my family was making a summer trip that included a stop in the area. I took a side trip by myself to a tiny town that looked nothing like Texas. I was intrigued.

I loved the feel of the small school. My interest to learn under veteran student ministry teachers was piqued. And even with my less that stellar cumulative PGA, I felt that I could make a case for admittance. While visiting, I met with an admissions officer and I was excited about this possibility.

Having spent the last 4 years in a theologically conservative environment, Asbury felt like a forward, yet not disruptive move. On the spectrum of traditional vs progressive, this seemed to be a safe middle ground. During the application process, I was asked to sign a statement upholding my desire to live in community free from alcohol and drugs, as well as hold tightly to traditional views on changing issues of the church. I found respite in both. I knew that in order to grow, removing stumbling blocks of argument and known challenges could only help my desire to pursue God’s call on my life. What I didn’t know at the time was that once again, rules and behavior codes would become the measuring stick for faithfulness.

With nerves in full motion, I mailed my application in the fall of 1996. And then the waiting started. Christmas came and went. Followed by the New Year’s holiday. I returned to school to start the last semester. When February 1st turned on the calendar, I knew a letter would be imminent.

On a breezy day during the first week of February, I opened the mailbox at my apartment and saw the letterhead. It was a thin letter and I knew that it contained the plans for the next step in my life. Was I leaving the security of family and friends and my church roots? Was I moving to Kentucky, where I knew no other students, with the hope of an educational background for my life? OR was I going to be looking for whatever plan ‘b’ might have been?

There on my familiar porch, I opened the letter that would set in motion my next steps. It was time for me to learn to drive on hills of ice because I was headed north. My excitement was uncontainable. My plans were coming to fruition. I was ready to fly. For the first time, I was actively dreaming about what life in vocational ministry would mean for me. This was so much bigger than any script I could have written. I finally felt like my life was in rhythm with my Creator and I was prepared to soar.

From my experience, it is smack in the middle of that moment that your plan can be detoured. Get ready, plan-it-out-girl, because sometimes the best gifts are complete surprises.

The word epiphany comes from the Greek noun epiphaneia, which means “shining forth,” “manifestation,” or “revelation.”   The Epiphany of our Lord is the Christian festival that celebrates the many ways through signs, miracles, and preaching that Jesus revealed Himself to the world as Christ, God Incarnate, and King of kings.

Epiphany is the liturgical festival observed on January 6. Since January 6 is most often a weekday, many shift the celebration of Epiphany to the Sunday immediately following the 6th. Originally, Epiphany commemorated three incidents that portrayed the mission and divinity of Christ:  the visit of the Magi, the baptism of Jesus, and the miracle at Cana.

In the season of Epiphany, we experience a shift. Epiphany moves us from the family celebrations and demands our inner circle to include “all the ends of the earth.” Just like the wise men, we are reminded to have the courage to follow the light of the star we have seen, however hazardous the journey.  Epiphany reminds us that the light of our faith, like that of the wise men, should be so strong that we are able to see and recognize and our Savior in whatever form God uses to reveal hope, even that of a helpless baby.

This is the season that things move from a self focused expression of faith in God to the recognition that this gift is for the world. This life of saving faith is not just for the parents of this baby or those present that day. It is not just for those that have the correct DNA or born into the religious rules. Epiphany is a deliberate movement to enter into the fullness of salvation and the expectant hope that all of the world can be changed through the gift of Jesus.

In my life, this was when I realized that every step towards adulthood meant one more step closer to being fully devoted to serving Jesus and the Church. It was time to reach the ends of the earth.

In the midst of seasons of change, there are defining relationships that mold and shape you. The ones that grow you. The ones that hurt you. The ones that leave a legacy of hope when you feel alone and unsure. It is a reoccurring theme in my story that relationships like this seem to take root on porches. While reflecting on the reason for the location, I came to the realization that my back porch friends are often creatures that overuse words and over think life. Porches are great for both. And for smoking.

As I returned for the final year of college, I was a bundle of contradiction. I knew that my life was not my own. I knew that the next step for me was to attend seminary and further my education and calling. But I still had 9 months of college life and I wasn’t sure how to compartmentalize this ever-growing clash of lifestyles. After a summer of full-time ministry, I drove into Waco with a conflicted spirit and unsure of how these next few months would play out.

I was a senior and my brother joined us at Baylor that semester. I was living in an apartment with 3 other girls, one being my sister. We were all sorority sisters and our apartment was known as a gathering post. #1104, as it was affectionately known, was notorious for late night and great times. With the addition of a handful of 18 year-old boys that were more than excited to have multiple ID wielding seniors around, our porch was never empty. These boys were characters. There was entertainment and stories when the guys from Penland were visiting. There as never a shortage of laughter, Swisher Sweets or Mad Dog 20/20. I have been sworn to uphold the code of sisterly silence for most of the tales, but I can still recall them quite well.

There was one particular personality that was bigger than the room. From the first time I met him, I was sure that the swagger, accent and lingo were an act. As I got to know him, I realized that not only was it the real deal, but it was what made him so damn endearing. Almost immediately I found myself in late night conversations about all things, well, just all things. We laughed and talked and most conversations included a sisterly “that’s not a good idea” or “you should think about that more.” Sometimes, I would just flat-out disagree with whatever the bright idea of the moment may have been. He didn’t seem to listen to me or care about my very advanced life stage and hard-earned wisdom. But I knew he did. On more than one occasion, I would be sleeping in my bed and hear pebbles hitting my window. The first time, this was endearing. By the fourth or fifth, I was annoyed. But every time I would go to the window, I would hear, “Hey, guuuurl!” That voice immediately meant less sleep and more porch time. And I didn’t care at all.

As I walked through this strange process of applying to seminary and leaving college, those talks on the porch reminded me of why I love people. I love to hear a good story. I loved to hear the whole thing – the good and the bad, the hard and the wonderful. Our porch stories were filled the epic tales of mischief and the longing of future hopes and dreams. They were bound together with laughter and maybe a tear or two, but always with the knowledge that whatever was to come would be enough. I cannot think of two college students that were at more different forks in the road, but there on that dirty furniture, the world’s problems seemed to be solved. I was writing essays to go across the country to pursue ministry as a vocation, while another’s ‘all in’ college experience was just beginning. And our common ground was the porch.

When I came back for my second semester, I was resigned that I was leaving the state. I was severing ties with my past. I had stopped drinking to honor the Ethos statement of the seminary to which I had applied. My life was changing rapidly and within a system of rules, I felt safe. I had devised a mental checklist of right and wrong that was easy delineated by standards rather than heart. I would quickly learn that the heart is a powerful thing.

It was 1996. I was a 21 year old youth intern. I had so much to learn and in the same breath was more enthusiastic than ever about doing ministry. One of the great jokes of youth ministry is that no one in the church understands what you do, so therefore you must not DO anything. As a college age summer intern you do many things, but to an outsider, most of them look like play and travel. True.

My first ministry job included planning and leading and organizing. It involved long bus rides and sleepless nights. I worked with another 20-something single person, our idea of good planning was securing the van keys and not losing kids. Most of the time the first was successful, but I cannot always stay the same for the second. Like the one time that the middle of the night game of hide and seek went south and we found a junior high boy climbing through the ceiling tiles to find the perfect hiding spot. Junior high is a special time.

That summer, I learned so much. Like how not to get caught wrapping the church trees. I also walked into the heartbreaking side of grown-up life in the real world. That summer I made a CPS reporting call for the first time, I walked alongside a suicidal teenager and I realized that sometimes growing up means recognizing when one season is over and the next season is beginning.

It was in this new season that I began making noise about a symbol of adulthood. While it hard to imagine in 2017, there was a time when not everyone had tattoos. In fact it was something that many rebellious folks were taking on, usually in quarter sized artwork that could often be found on a hip or ankle. For almost 3 years, I had been pondering an image in my mind. As I finished my first summer of ministry, it was time. My mother was appalled. I can remember calling an MRI imaging center, because in one of there lesser moments, she made a case for avoiding tattoo because you will NEVER be able to have a MRI if you get a tattoo. Wrong.

To conclude the already eventful summer, I spent a July Saturday night participating an a little permanent bonding with my boss. I tattooed an ichthus on my hip. But true to my own style, I added a unique element. The fish was in motion, alive and breathing out the breath of life. From its mouth came three bubbles – one for my childhood, one for my college years and one for the future. The original design had symbolically colored bubbles, but I settled on black. Years later, my mom told me it looked like a cockroach, but its still one of my favorite pieces. Skin art would be one of the many ways that I came to tell my story in the days ahead.

After a year and a half of running as far away from Church and ministry and calling as I could, I found myself at a crossroads. Every Baylor student had to take 6 hours of classes in the Religion Department. Most students chose to take a class in New Testament and a class in Old Testament. I found myself in an interesting dilemma in the middle of my junior year. As a first semester freshman, I took a class called Survey of the Bible. This call was designed for students that planned to take upper level courses in the department. At that time, I was excited to grown in my understanding of calling and faith and the Church. Since completing that class, I found myself trying all in my power to run from this calling.

When it came time to register for classes in the Spring of my 3rd year, I knew I needed to complete the other 3 hours of religion requirement. I found the course in the catalog that had the least to do with my call to serve the church and prepared for class registration day. When it was my turn to call in (yes, this was a forward thinking registration system…before everyone used the internet) I found out that my class of choice was full. Seeing this as simply a small challenge to avoid being still with God, I went the next day to the head of the religion department to have him override the course.

I can remember sitting in the office preparing my case:

“You see, Dr. Smarty-Jesus-Man, I am working hard to graduate in four years because I am a great daughter and I want to make sure that I complete my religion requirements this year. I know that the Modern Cults class is full, but I am more convinced that ever that building this knowledge base will help me as I familiarize myself with the temptations of my generation. I also know that there are other courses, but this one in particular peaks my interest in those that are far away from God and I want to be a part of speaking of their culture and context.”

I tried my best and instead of singing my paper, he produces a folder from his desk that contain a list of names.

*insert your most loving grandfatherly role model with a calm but firm voice*

“I see that you responded a few years ago to a perceived call on your life to serve God in the Church.”

(stunned silence fell over the office while I sheepishly nodded)

“I am not going to sign the paper for the cults class, but I have already placed you in the Intro to Ministry class that will give you an opportunity to further explore that call.”

If it is possible to be irritated and relieved at the same time, that is where I found myself. Most of me screamed, “NOOOOO!!!” The remaining 3% felt a small relief that maybe, just maybe I would quit trying to cram my ill-fitting skill set into a business or education degree.

I can remember walking into Dr. Slover’s Intro class in January with skepticism and a complete sarcastic crappy attitude. I knew that this had a huge possibility of crashing my well solidified rhythm of avoiding God. As I approached the room on the first day, proudly sporting my greek letters and the bloodshot eyes of a wild weekend, I was smacked with a new reality. The class had 12 students. While this is an adorable Biblical shout-out, it meant that there would be no hiding. Even worse, only two of the 12 were of the female variety. Things only got worse when the syllabus explained that I had to participate in an internship with a local church. There was no escaping this one. I was not going to avoid it any longer.

Within a week, I had the background on the other 11, and I quickly realized I was odd woman out. My only other gender compadre was very clear from her background and understanding of the Church that she was not equipped to be a “pastor” in any capacity. She was pursuing her call to foreign missions. Of the other 10, many were drawn to preaching, a few to music and one to full time evangelism. So when the first assignment was to tell my background and to explain your understanding of ‘your call’ I was terrified.

Most of my classmates were raised in and were responding to ministry leadings in churches of the Southern Baptist Convention. Having been raised in the United Methodist tradition, I had a framework for traditional views on women in leadership, but I was blessed with examples for inclusion as well. It never crossed my mind that saying that I felt called to ministry with students was going to be controversial or troublesome. When I stood to tell my story, the confusion came over the room. Many were offended, a few were curious and in the same moment, the shame gremlins crawled up my back and held on for a wild ride. Not only did I have so much to work out personally, but I was about to enter into a season where I was forced to examine my framework for life.

Although incredibly traditional, my teacher was kind and honored my place. But when it came time to choose an intern location, in order to have a female mentor, I was given the choice of a missionary or a children’s pastor. I opted for the later because my Jamaica experience was a little fresh in my memory bank. After 3 months of meeting with her, I learned so much. Including the fact that I am not called or created to me in ministry to children. I really wasn’t sure that I liked them. However, the season did remind me of the passion I had for serving and teaching and loving people in the midst of the struggles of faith.

It was clear, through this class, that I missed the Church. I missed learning from leaders and teachers. I knew that my passion for connectedness in the season of adolescence was my jam. So I did the best thing I knew to do, I interviewed with churches to serve a summer in youth ministry. I wrapped up junior year with one foot in full blown college crazy and one foot in vocational ministry. While not great long term partners, it was such a step forward from my place of disconnect that I could begin to see the light of day.

“Rent a Friend, Join a Frat”

That is the wording on my husband’s favorite college t-shirt. And for many people that know me today, they have a hard time placing me in the context of southern sorority girl. Say what you will about the in’s and out’s of greek life, in this season, it was a great decision. In the fall of 1994, I returned for my sophomore year with excitement – an off campus apartment and the goal of wearing a jersey. Yes, my goals were high…sweat in pantyhose and polyester all for the sake of being a part.

Fall classes started and in the same breath rush parties did, as well. Fall rush is much less chaotic, but the day I received the bid to join my sorority  I was elated. I knew a few initiated girls already, and I was beside myself to find out that my dear friend from last year, you know the pretty blonde one, had received one as well. Pictures tell the story of the smiles, but the I can still remember what I wore to acceptance night. There, among girls that came from a variety of cities and states with backgrounds just as varied, we found a common bond in silly rush songs and service hours and pledge meetings.

In a group of 120 women, there is always entertainment. Strong leaders and creative minds alike, I was taken by the women and their take-charge, can-do attitudes. Immediately, I found connection with a group of juniors and seniors that were by name and work ethic the leaders. I can remember watching them as they prepared for events and training sessions. They had such poise and when they spoke, people listened. The respect was immediate and commanding. But the best part was the willingness to do the hard work of leadership.

There are those that enjoy the title. And then there are those that by DNA are wired to jump in the middle of chaos and bring order and structure. There were two women in particular that taught me what it meant to lead. I can remember as I sat in our pledge meetings that the woman charged with bringing order to our nonsense was one of a kind.  The title for the upper-class woman that walks you through this process is a Pledge Educator. Mine was a natural born leader. She was funny and well spoken. She moved with authority and yet was approachable and wanted to be your friend. She always had a smile, unless you were acting a fool and I loved her even more for that.

The second model of leadership was the woman that became our president the next semester and was preparing the chapter for rush that spring. She was smart and beautiful. While she was so friendly, she had a mode of operation that caused you to think twice before questioning her decisions. Not because of a perceived power trip, but because you trusted that she was leading you in the right direction. She never raised her voice and yet rarely was she questioned. She was one of those people that you just want to be on a team with because you know you will be better because of it. I didn’t know it at the time, but she would become a dear friend, a wise counsel and my big sister.

Sure, you can say that sorority life is “not real” and unnecessary. There are parts of it that make me cringe to think of the ways that my superficiality prevailed. What I can tell you about this season of my life in spite of the hiccups, is that in these years a gift for leadership was born. Deep in my spirit, I came to believe that I was capable and had gifts to offer the world. And then, best of all, I was empowered to lead and people believed in me. Only the best leaders can inspire others to do the same.