Category Archives: Liturgical Faith

my story through the lens of the Church calendar

The Gift of the Chase

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I left Waco for the summer with one goal. I knew I was going back to rush and hopefully pledge a sorority. High goals, I know. I also had seen enough in year one to know that with those greek letters would come the opportunity to swim in adventurous ponds of new activities. My goal for the summer was to get ready. First on my list of things to achieve was the ability to enjoy alcohol. That was the responsible thing to do, right? Being the perfectionist planner that I am, I set off to master the skill. I planned the day, I planned the setting. I called the accomplices. I even sent the designated procurement agent off with a complete list of supplies.

Again, with the perfectionist nonsense, I studied alcohol volume and content and felt that starting slow would be beneficial. I still have a bit of twitch when I see B&J Strawberry Daiquiri wine coolers, but perhaps not for the reason you might think. After consuming a few, I realized that all of the horror stories about being drunk and the worries that had held the demon of alcohol at bay, did not seem to be affecting me. I just didn’t get the big deal. I was not woozy. I was not out of control. I actually just felt like I had a belly bloated with sugar.

In my attempt to reconcile this apparent discrepancy in storyline, I sought the council of a more experienced drinker. As I explained that there appeared to be no ill effects, it was suggested that I try something with a bit more punch. The mason jar was prepared and the Wild Turkey was poured. Erroneously assuming that the drink was completed, I took the jar and drank it down in one fast swallow. Apparently, I was supposed to wait for Diet Coke. But with my limited experience, mixers were not in my knowledge base. The brown stuff was in the jar and I thought it was my turn to drink. What happened next was a fork in the road of my story. Where most 19 year old novice drinkers would have spit out the bourbon based on smell alone, the moment the burn hit my throat, it was as if the universe announced, “GAME ON!” In that backyard experience, I felt like the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I did not have to be in charge. In that moment, my very ordered, precise, black and white world came alive with a burn and a bad aftertaste.

I found myself with a lightness that I had never known. My words were freer. My cares were diminished. My fears of not being loved fled the scene like a The Ghost of Adolescence Past. I stood in that moment with a new world order that grew with each intake of ethanol. In a matter of minutes, I transformed from a thought obsessed, insecure girl to a careless, brave, bold grown-up. I was immediately drunk on being drunk. I knew that this feeling would solve many of the terrible ills that plagued my psyche. Much to the dismay of those who were around me, the morning also brought few ill effects. There was no vomiting. There was no light sensitivity. Rather, I woke with a keen awareness that I had a new best friend and his name was alcohol.

This was hardly a one time encounter. My desire to make up for lost time meant that I had work to do. With some additional experiences, I knew no moderation. Where I had seen adults have a drink at dinner or sip a glass of wine, that was never a desire for me. In contrast, my goal from day one was to pack as much power as I could behind each sip. I’m sure that I would have been much more enjoyable had I not required regular babysitting. What my friends discovered, even in those early days, was that given a dose of alcohol courage, my opinions were louder and my hostility more pronounced. I have never lacked for believing I was right, or that 90% of the general population was wrong. But with the non-filter of a drunk, I was not only willing to share my wisdom but to proclaim your stupidity.

When people talk about enjoying “a beer” that never crossed my mind. Like everything else about my personality and wiring, I carried a few life goals into my new world of alcohol:

  • go big or go home
  • if its worth doing, do it all the way
  • if a little is good, then more is even better

And so began a love affair that was in the driver’s seat of my life for much of the next 12 years. Why, you may be asking, is this a story in the celebration of Christmas and considered a gift? Like so many things in life, the chase for the high that I experienced for the fist time at 19 became a focal point. And while the outcome and end result would play out in some very dark ways, in the birth of my love for the drink, it was a glorious thing. I felt happier. I felt freer. I felt more alive than I had ever been. That all changed when I came to realization that feelings are not facts. But for now, bottoms up because we were having a party of epic proportions.

The Gift of Calling

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As I prepared to go off to Baylor, I had done all that I could think of to serve my local church. I believed in the call of the Church from a young age. It was natural for me to want to serve and learn and grown in anyway that was offered.  I was a leader in my youth group. I was a youth choir member. I served on committees and boards. I spoke on Youth Sunday. The Church was a very safe and warm place for me.

One of the last trips before I left for college was a large youth gathering on the University of Arkansas campus. We heard speakers and worshiped and learned. As camp was coming to a close, in true youth camp fashion, they had the service. This is the end of week service where they invite you to dedicate your life to God in a new way. I was a veteran, and I knew what to expect. As I sat through the muffled hormonal sobs of intense adolescent feelings, I watched and genuinely prayed for many that were open to seeking God for the first time. I assumed that they would be ushered to the waiting adults and the rest of us would be left to close the final night with a dance. We were Methodists, mind you.

But then the speaker offered another invitation. I don’t really remember exactly what the words were, but the message was something to the effect of, ‘if you can’t get away from this tugging that God has a big plan for you to serve the Church with all that you are, come on up here.’

I had no intention to move from my seat that night. And before I could realize what was happening, I was on that auditorium stage with other teenagers and they were praying over our lives and ministries and callings. I had no idea what that meant. Many days, I still don’t understand it. But I can tell you that my life was never the same. I knew from that moment forward that whatever road I traveled, I was supposed to do it in a way that serving God was the center of my journey.

When people describe a ‘call to ministry’ some are very specific about the call to preach or to pastoral care or evangelism. Some have a clear call to missions or music. In the summer of 1993, I knew that I loved students. I knew that I had been blessed by great models for ministry to teenagers. I still did not have certainty or affirmation that women could be called and gifted to be lead pastors of a church, but I knew that my love for walking with others was very real. I would spend many years clarifying my response to the moment, but on that big stage – in a way that I had always resisted – I stood up. I walked to the front of that auditorium and I lunged what little I had to offer, into the arms of a God that had work to do.

When I arrived on campus in Waco a few weeks later, I attended Welcome Week. During a service, I wrote on some piece of paper, at some time, a small check mark in a box about feeling a call to serve God in the context of ministry. This one act would be critical in years to come, but for now, I had an entire new world to explore. Sic ‘Em Bears!

The Gift of Waking Up

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With all of my woes and teenage ups and downs, I entered the summer after high school graduation with a new lease on life. I was excited about going away to Baylor in the fall. I was committed to spending the summer doing things that gave me life and energy and courage. This included a stateside mission trip with my youth group, camps and trips with my sister and youth director, time at home with my immediate family and my graduation present from my parents, a trip to Jamaica.

This sounds like a Caribbean escape, right? I joined a team of adults from my church to travel for 10 days to do construction and host a VBS program in an impoverished hillside village. There was one other 18 year-old on the trip and he traveled with his dad. I felt invincible and courageous and bold and ready to travel outside of the USA for the first time. I should have known that the trip was going to be full of excitement when we landed at the airport and AK47s were on the shoulders of the men inspecting our luggage. This was certainly not Texas and apparently we talked funny.

There were many adults that I knew on the trip, but up until this point, I had always traveled with a sibling or parent or youth sponsor. I was officially a grown-up. I can remember thinking on the flight to Jamaica that I had arrived. If this was adult-ing, I had this thing covered.We were on the island for less than 48 hours when I experienced a night that I will never forget.

We stayed in houses in a high tourist area and had a night guard that patrolled the grounds. In my house, we had the father and son sleeping downstairs, and (3) two person teams in the bedrooms upstairs. My roommate and I had the room on the far end of the hall, and we had an air-conditioning shortage, so we left the door open for the fans to cool the room. At some point in the night, I woke up. It was rare for me to wake in the night, but I made my way to the bathroom in the dark and flipped on the light. When I did, I realized that something was off. In that moment, I had my first real encounter with trusting my intuition. I noticed that my pink sponge rollers were spread on the floor. I knew I did not leave them there, so I was immediately aware that something was not right. I walked back into the room, leaving the bathroom light on, and realized that my suitcase had been ransacked. Things were obviously missing and the alarm clock on my bedside table was gone. I don’t remember waking my roommate, but in no time, she was standing with me and we were terrified.

We quickly woke the other 4 that were sleeping on our floor. As we walked down the hall, I realized that my belongings were strewn down the stairs. One of the rooms upstairs was being shared by a middle age couple. He jumped into protector mode and quickly told us to stay behind. This was far from successful, as I can recall being steps behind him as we made our way to the bottom floor. Before we reached the room of our downstairs housemates, we passed the kitchen entrance. I could see my birth certificate on the floor with my empty money pouch and camera case. As my eyes came into focus and my brain began to register, I realized that the room was covered in blood. There was no sign of a victim, but someone was definitely hurt.

We quickly woke our housemates and by the time we assembled in the den, the lights were coming on outside and it was apparent that there was a problem. We came to learn that a gang of young men had come into our house. They had been inches away from my body and I never moved. A house of 8 people never stirred and no one startled awake as they trashed our house. There is not one argument or piece of evidence that can change my belief that God caused our sleep to be supernaturally deep. God protected our lives.

The blood in the kitchen belonged to the security officer. Our night guard, trying to trap the robbers for the police, reached his arm inside the slats of the shutters to lock them in our kitchen. We will discuss the merits of this plan another day, but the result of this action was that the men used their machetes to slash the guard’s arm and the evidence was the crime scene in the kitchen. When I let that sink in, I was even more convinced of the protective cloud that was over that house.

 

During the next 7 days, I had a crash course in the Jamaican court system. They captured two of the men (I’m quite sure one was 10-12 years old) with my belonging on their person. This meant that I had to go to the town police station and identify my belongings, by way of standing face to face with the ones that had them in their possession. I can remember standing on the dirt floor police station as they brought these “men” in front of me. They had beaten the bottoms of their feet so severely that they could hardly walk. I was devastated. The conclusion of the event was a trial that was held the day before we left to come home, whereby I testified in “court” against the gang.

To say that my first international trip and foreign mission experience was life changing is an understatement. I still check doors and windows nightly. 25 years later, I believe that when I am awakened in the night it is for a reason. Sometimes it is clear. Other times, it is just to be still. I do both with gratitude. But most of all, I am thankful for the gift of waking up. Until that moment, I did not appreciate our government or rights or justice. I had no concept that there were places in the world where safety was rare and there was nothing that approached secure. I had no appreciation for the privilege of my private school upbringing. I certainly didn’t appreciate the opportunities that were ahead of me in college.

In that 10 day trip, I woke up to a world with hatred and injustice and hopelessness. I had a new appreciation for poverty and scarcity and being willing to go to any lengths. On that trip, I learned many lessons, but the one that I am quick to recognize is that you can’t always run away. I’m sure my mom wanted me on the next flight back to Texas when she heard this story. And let’s be honest, there was a big part of me that wanted to run home to my parents. But there was also a part of me that knew that I needed this trip. I needed to know what being strong was like. I needed to face the unknown and uncertain with people that I was forced to depend on. I had no money. Many of my creature comforts were gone. This was a life defining moment that gave me insight into what it was like to stand on my own. This was a wakeup call that was a well timed gift from God.

How is this a Christmasy story? If Christmastide is about finding joy and receiving hope, this trip was a gift. Sometimes the hard and the unnerving and fear inducing moments are the very times that we can find joy and hope in a God that is bigger than our fear of the dark.

 

The Gift of Purpose

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Is there anything that can prepare you for the first time you encounter the career that you know you were created for? For some, it comes in the experience of meeting a doctor and knowing that you want to be a healer. For others, you see a student’s eyes light up with hope and your need to develop life learners calls you to education. For me, the presence and service of ministry was introduced in many forms. As with most first time encounters, the surface does not tell the complete story.

My first memory of a pastor was the very old guy that wore a robe and shoulder pads at church. Following him, the pulpit was filled by a younger man that placed a stool behind the podium. I always felt like he was trying to fill the big shoes of the tall old man. BUT, he had candy and Cracker Jacks, so what he lacked in experience and height, he made up for in excellent kid treats.

The pastoral role at a church is a curious position. As a kid that felt right at home in the church office, there was always one place that was mysteriously off limits. The Pastor’s Study was a combination library, counseling cubicle and living area. There was a private bathroom and a personal closet. All of these things seem important and special. That made the man that filled the office important and special.

I made a mental note at an early age that this unique and obviously important job was worthy of reverence. While it was not said out loud that I can recall, it was clear to me from all those that spoke of Jesus and the Church, that I failed to possess qualifying gender requirements to be the occupant of such an office. The issue of gender roles in ministry is an immensely complicated one that plagued my understanding of calling for many years. It was further complicated by the fact that the previously mentioned ill-fitting pastoral appointment was the first female ordained pastor that I had ever met. The events of this teenage encounter led to confusion and challenge, but for the time being, I looked to others for leadership. While I did not explore the role of the robe wearing boss, I was introduced early on to women that were serving in life giving, heart opening ways.

There were three women that played key roles in setting before me the fullness of calling as I began to serve in the church. When I reflect on my early understanding of ministry, I can see clearly the models of sacrifice and surrender that were instilled through the legacy of these women. In the church of my heritage, they were known as “Youth Directors.” Their formal education lacked a seminary degree and their position in the denomination did not give them access to lead in the sacraments, but their lives were every bit as pastoral as the robe wearing men of my childhood.

From their study of the Bible, to their faithful prayer life, they showed me how to do the work of ministry in my formative years. I moved from a place of dreamy admiration for all things Church, to the realistic awareness that laying your life down for others is a daily sacrifice. The countless hours of retreats and teenage drama, paired with the intense demands by the church for planning and creativity, showed me time and again that ministry was more than a job. It was something you did because you could not possibly do anything else. What I found from their example, was the desire to wrestle and dream and ask many questions.  I would need the space for dreaming and these human models in the days to come. Because when you receive this kind or gift, what is the appropriate response?

A Gift Like No Other

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If you have been around Christianity for any length of time, you have undoubtedly had the encounter with the question, “Are you saved?” Now, I love this questions for so many reasons, but may usual response is, “Saved from what?”

To tell today’s story, you must understand a bit more about the years from 1989-1991. During this season, the church of my childhood underwent massive changes. We were part of a denominational system where pastors (or clergy) are appointed by the bishop. While the needs of the local church are heard and considered, ultimately, the bishop makes the decision who will pastor a local congregation. During this two year season, our church received a new pastor. The appointment was not perceived as a “fit” by many in the congregation and a church division took place. Many of the faces that I had come to know and love were no longer there.

During the same season, I became a youth delegate to the Church Council. This is designed to give students the opportunity to develop leadership and ownership in the church. Unfortunately, the timing coincided with a season of division and heartache in church leadership. I saw what I politely refer to as the underbelly of the beast. At 14 and 15, I saw some of the hardest moments of church life.

After increasing unrest and a clear sign that it was time to move on, my family set off to find a new community of faith. Up to this point, I knew only one. When we made our home in a new community, I began to seek out relationships with the teenagers of that church. It took some adjustment, but when we settled, I was surrounded by adults that loved and encouraged me. While it was a significant and constant influence, the other factors of growing up life were spinning like china plates. With one wiggle or wobble, my delicately designed outsides may show the desperation of the wildly confused insides. The feelings of inadequacies, my desire to please people and my fear of disappointing God lead me to the constant worry that I was not saved. Otherwise, why would these trials continue to come my way, right?

This is where non-church people are so confused. Let me try and shed a little bit of southern Bible belt light. By this time, I was a pro at all things church. I knew the pattern of mess up, confess, recommit like the back of my hand. I had spent many Saturday nights at youth weekends with the altar call to commit your life to Jesus…again. And If you know how these moments play out, you are familiar with the sobbing teenager that needs 14 friends to walk with her to the front, therefore all of them are now on their knees and receiving counsel. This is a grand generalization, but sadly very accurate. By the time I reached my junior year in high school, I was long over this emotional manipulation and far more concerned that somehow these moments did not “work” on me.

I can remember telling my youth pastor that I didn’t know if my many attempts to change and be enough and let Jesus work in me were sufficient. I also expressed that somehow these camp like drama-fests were lacking in sincerity and hope for me. So, she stopped right there in the copy room of the church. There was no call to the altar. There was no highly dramatic moment. Instead, there was a sincere effort on my part to begin something new.

My best efforts were not getting me though with any great success. My attempts to succeed felt empty at best. I was longing for a next step and she promised me that in spite of the bumps and heartache that would surely be ahead, I could rest in the knowledge that I was not alone. This was good news. And while I didn’t fully understand it in July of 1992, that is the Gospel of Jesus. With a pause in the copy cycle and a prayer of trust, Christmas Day came in an empty church office for a struggling teenager with the longing for peace. I was saved that day, and I would be saved time and time and time again.

Merry Christmas.

In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. 5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:4-5

What is Christmas?

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We have prepared. We have longed for the pieces of our brokenness to be restored. And in the midst of our waiting, hope has come. That is what happens when the sun goes down on December 24th and the fullness of love is found in the manger.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being” (John 1:1-3, NRSV).

Why do I love Christmas so much? Because there it is a beautiful picture of the love that we are offered by our Creator. A fragile helpless baby, being presented as the conduit of grace. In the Christian tradition, the Christmas season (note…it is a SEASON, not a day) is a period beginning on December 25th and continuing through January 6th. If you have ever wondered why we sing about the 12 days of Christmas, this would be the explanation. To fully celebrate the miraculous transformation that the world experiences in the coming of Jesus, one day to unwrap gifts and eat ham just won’t suffice!

“Christmas commemorates the most momentous event in human history—the entry of God into the world he made, in the form of a baby. The Logos through whom the worlds were made took up his dwelling among us in a tabernacle of flesh. One of the prayers for Christmas Day in the Catholic liturgy encapsulates what Christmas means for all believers: “O God, who marvelously created and yet more marvelously restored the dignity of human nature, grant that we may share the divinity of him who humbled himself to share our humanity.” In Christ, our human nature was united to God, and when Christ enters our hearts, he brings us into that union.”

-Edwin and Jennifer Woodruff Tait “The Real 12 Days of Christmas” Christianity Today –Aug 2008

If we have truly spent the four weeks of Advent preparing, we are ready for a good long party. We need the time to feel the party. We need the rhythm of celebration to be full. We need to take a holy and carved out moment to soak in the mystery of the gift, and the significance of the hope, that is being offered. Christmas is a season of feasting. It is a season that is designed to give us a foundation of hope that will help us to endure the darkness that inevitably will come.

On a modern note, many are ready for the decorations to be gone on December 26th because they have been glittering in our face since November. I get it. I would, however, encourage you to take the intentional posture of celebration in the midst of the seasonal unwind. As you repack your nativity and re-roll your outdoor lights, I wonder if the call to gratitude and presence can be manifested? Rather than rushing to rid your home of all signs of indoor snow and singing plush reindeer, the deliberate attention to pursue joy can abound.

It is a rare day in our fast paced world that we allow ourselves the gift of slowly celebrating. Perhaps, that’s what the season of Christmas is all about. Otherwise, we move right from candlelight to gifts to attic restocking and in the process, we fail to see how this miraculous season changed the world. It happened long ago, in a culture so different from mine, and yet a miracle was present in a moment that reoriented the life of a 17 year old teenager in Texas in 1992.

Joy to the world, the Lord has come.

The Search for the Missing Piece

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If there was a single word that could summarize my advent, it would be longing. I longed to find my place among peers, I longed to feel comfortable in my role in the family. I longed to feel worthy. My attempts to fill this longing were not that different from many other young women. The world told me that I would find my place, my person, in someone else. In the 90s era of coming of age, Seventeen and Glamour quizzes were sure to help you “get” the guy, look the part and fit in. Yeah, no.

What I found with each passing day was that the shoes and clothes and purses, not even the ones with the 3D ducks, could make me feel the way that the girls in the magazines looked. I was awkward. I was unsure. I didn’t know how my body worked. I spent most of the years between 12-15 trying desperately to be anything but the person that my body told me I was. A week of conversations and creatively folded notes with a junior high football player gained me attention. That is if you call being barked at in the hall by his friends, attention.

During my freshman year of high school I grew 5 inches. I was approaching 6′ tall and not even the fact that I went to an all-girls school could shield me from the fact that my insides did not match my outsides. By all physical characteristics, I would make a great athlete. Nope. That would require my arms and legs and brain to communicate in way that centered around coordination. What about modeling? Yeah, just because someone is tall or skinny or both, you should never suggest that. When the agency encouraged me to chop off my hair I realized this was not helping me be me. Their goal was to make me be them. Standing face to face with a less than stellar academic life, a turbulent self esteem and uneasy friendships, the next step was sadly predictable. As many teenage women find out the hard way, relationships fix nothing. But I needed no assistance, asked for no advice and knew just what I needed.

This pattern was an ongoing journey of pain and heartbreak and self-hate. It fueled arguments and patterns of angst. It shaped words and framed thinking and paved deep grooves in my soul that told me that there had to be an exterior way to fill an internal hole. Like I’ve mentioned before, my adolescence was absent from perceived worldly rebellion. What the world did not know and my perfectionist outside smoothy polished, was my first drug of choice: people. I love to be needed. I love to be loved. I love to be the saving piece to the puzzle of struggling humanity. While years of hard work and learning showed me that there were blessings and curses to every gift, in the advent of my peopling, I was throwing a worse case basement party that included some of the best co-dependents and emotionally unhealthy people this world could offer a struggling teenager.

Here is the quick takeaway for those need a peek at how years of therapy played out:

  • you are enough
  • you are enough
  • another person cannot fill your holes
  • you are enough
  • you are enough
But this is skipping too far into the future. For now, the longing was real. The need to feel love was profound, and my two favorite stops for a fix were boyfriends and the church. Good times. Both of these can help to fulfill a healthy person. But to a young person, on the search for hope and love and joy and peace, I was in desperate need for a Savior.

Echoes of Powerful Voices

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When you spend time reflecting on the people that shape your childhood, the biggies are easy to see. The elementary school teacher that first engaged you in your love of history, the coach that would not let you quit and the piano teacher that withstood endless excuses for why you did not practice, all shape your journey in clear ways. There are also the less obvious voices. The ones that said or did something that they probably don’t even remember, but you will never forget. Three of these came to mind as I recalled my preparation for life.

The first was a man by the name of Mr. Mendenhall. Every Sunday, I would walk into church and he would be standing in the narthex (that’s a fancy church word for the foyer) with the bulletin of the day. He would hand the adults a paper and if you were a little too small to read, he would reach into his pocket and produce candy. I can remember that candy acquisition like it was yesterday. It was the hard candy with the loud wrapper that could get you into some trouble if you waited until prayer time to open it, but he never gave us instructions, only a smile. As I got older, I graduated to acolyte duty. He was always there, lighter in hand, to make sure we did not engulf the flowy robes or each other in flames. I don’t remember one time that I heard correction in his voice. He was the most endearing man. He taught me from a very early age the value of consistency in serving.

When I was in junior high, I had a Sunday School teacher by the name of Gary Smith. In this moment, I must pause and give thanks and praise for all of the wonderful souls that have ever taught a junior high class. This is a special age. One that requires laughter and love and very thick skin. Mr. Smith was the right guy for the job. He showed us how to read the Bible. He answered all of our stupid questions. He let us awkwardly try to navigate the woes and pains of junior high life and he did it all with a smile. My favorite memory was the day he invited us all to his house to make chili for the church chili cook off. God. Bless. It was a train wreck of female hormones and drama and a far cry from cooking. But not one time did he ever treat our ideas as anything but brilliant. He encouraged us to be ourselves and we were better off because of him.

When I think about the people that embodied grace and love, one man immediately came to mind. My high school Sunday School teacher, Tom Beasley. I have tears as I type this thinking about the way that he endured numerous RIDICULOUS conversations that we incited. There was not a passionate big haired, Houston area, Jesus loving teen of the early 1990s that did not have all of the wisdom and revelation thanks to the fact that God Listened. We knew it all. And on more than one occasion, we enlightened Mr. Beasley with our profound revelation of Biblical truth. Let me share his grace – he never, not once, told us we were wrong. He was a brilliant man, well read in matters of science and business and faith, and yet he made us feel like we knew more than he did. He would help us search the Scriptures and listen to our musings and never preached. We would bring in an idea or topic and he made us feel like our small insight was original truth. His patience and kindness and excitement for us was unmatched, and I am better for it.

As I reflected from an adult vantage point on the gifts these men offered me, I was struck by a common thread. None of them had kids my age. None of them did their ‘job’ for glory or fame or a pay check. They all served the kids and teenagers that were placed in their path like it was the most important job on the planet. Even more impressive, they made every single one of us feel like we were important. There is no doubt in my mind that the gifts that leaders like this gave me in my personal advent are the reason that I am who I am today. They formed in me the desire to reach deep and share my life with others in ways that they will never know. For these gifts, I am indebted.

The Advent of My Faith

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Being raised by two parents that love Jesus and believe in the Church is undoubtedly a piece of my story that deserves an early and significant place in the story of my preparation. One cannot begin to develop the priority that I place on a community centered around faith in a vacuum. I don’t remember a time in life that our schedule, priorities and energy were not committed to the work of Christ in the world. I felt more at home in Sunday school classrooms than I did at school or on the sports field or even at Pipe Organ Pizza. The church of my childhood was as much a part of my development as my DNA. I was educated in friendship, jealousy, heartbreak, joy, laughter and despair by experiencing the fullness on life with my faith community.

We lived in the neighborhood behind our church and on the short drive, we passed most of our best friend’s houses. Both of my parents, as well as my friend’s parents, served the church. Whether it be as choir director or board chair, finance committee leader or capital campaign chair, we found ourselves playing in the hallways while our parents were “working” most weeks. Looking back on it, this was a brilliant parenting strategy. This commitment to church life provided the parents time together and a nursery worker to lasso their wild offspring. There was nothing that could make me happier than the announcement that we were eating Happy Meals at the church tonight.

This was my family. We vacationed together. We played together. We went to each other events. We watched our parents support each other. We saw how much fun our parents had together when they sat on the beach or by the lake or in worship or played cards or even walked through hard seasons.

My parent’s closest friends belonged to a Sunday School named The Explorers. Almost 40 years later, I could pick up the phone and call anyone in that group and not only would they be there for my parents, but they would be there for me, my spouse or my kids. This is the kind of preparation I had in the advent of my life when it came to finding your people. We can go years without seeing each other, but when we do, it is like we are instantly transform into 8 year-olds hiding from our parents on the metal folding chair racks because we don’t want to go home.

I never felt shamed. I always knew I belonged. I believed that I was included. I saw the adults in my church give of their talents and time and sleep to impact our lives. This happened in the church building on Westheimer Rd., but it also happened in my living room and in the back room at Los Tios. It happened in the car on the way to camp and as we were jumping off cliffs in central Texas. I don’t remember a single “Jesus said not to…” lecture and I still know every word to Psalty’s songs and “We Like Sheep”. In the advent of my faith, I was blessed to have the engrained words of a song that I still sing on hard days, because it is so true.

Bullfrogs and butterflies, they’ve both been born again.  

If you have been around the Church very long, you know that not every experience is this much fun. There were rocky roads ahead. But when I look back on the formational years of my life, I have no doubt that the preparation for my calling and love of the Church was rooted by a group of 30-somethings that said that they needed Jesus and each other to get through life.

Sidekicks for Life

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If you have ever prepared for a journey, you know that magic happens when you are joined with like minded travelers. I was blessed early in life to be gifted a sister and a brother. As I previously explained, we are very close in age. While I’m certain this was a nightmare for my parents (think diapers x3, college x3) on many fronts, we as kids loved it! I had built-in playmates from the beginning. While I know many kids fuss and fight with their siblings, that is not a memory that I recall. Perhaps my parents would tell a different version of the story, but I saw my brother and sister as teammates, confidants and co-consipirators. We spent countless hours building hallway forts, creating backyard clubs, running the neighborhood and destroying dad’s yard with trash bag slip-and-slides.

My sister was one grade behind me in school and my brother was two grades below her. This meant that we were all in high school together and, yes, my parents had three kids at Baylor at the same time. While I can’t image that from my vantage point of today, as one who had the experience from the child’s perspective, it was genius. I had built-in friend groups. I always had someone with which to watch the current TV craze. When a new movie came out, no need to phone a friend, I had one.

The challenge came in our personalities. I am, by nature, more introverted than my siblings. I would rather have 2 best friends that know everything about me than 10 people to hang out with on Friday night. My sister, on the other hand, has never met a stranger. We can recall a junior high acquaintance and not only does she remember, but chances are good that she knows someone who knows someone that is still in touch with them. When you combine our natural personality traits with our age difference, I often could be found with more friends a grade behind me that my own age.

First world problems, right? Sure. But to the ever active magnifying mind of a perfectionistic, hormonal teenage girl EVERYTHING.IS.A.CRISIS. Especially when you have to go on grade specific class outings or worse when you compare yourself to your fun, easy going, friend magnet of a sister. With time and maturity and perspective, I have gained a since of belonging in my own skin, but in the advent of my birth into independence, my self-esteem and confidence to build and sustain my own friend group was minimal. I had two of the best friends in the world in my brother and sister, but looking beyond the walls of our house, connectedness was scarce.

While many look to their childhood for long lasting classmate relationships, tales of adolescent adventure and treasured life shaping memories, my junior high and high school days are often recalled much like a dark night with small bursts of starlight and faint glowing memories. I was scared, insecure, anxious and terribly introverted, which in my active and busy family provided for many major meltdowns. In this season, I was convinced that I was broken. People in this kind of family are happy. Why do I feel so overwhelmed?

As I prepared to launch into the birth of my independence, my constant companions were those given to me in birth. To this day, I thank every lucky star around for the love that can only come from a sibling that sees all of the worst days and still comes back for more.