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.