Day 12: The Gift of Calling

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!

Day 11: The Gift of Waking Up

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.

a statement from the Jamaican court

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.

Day 10: The Gift of Purpose

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?

Day 9: A Gift Like No Other

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

Day 8: What is Christmas?

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.

Day 7: The Search for the Missing Piece

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. 

Day 6: Echoes of Powerful Voices

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.

Day 5: The Advent of My Faith

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.

Day 4: Partners in Advent

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.

Day 3: The Originating Force in My Advent

If Advent is the season of preparedness, then there is no greater force of preparation in the life of a child than her parents. Whether for good or bad, hard or blessing, parents guide the development of not only your DNA but help shape your worldview.

I was born to a mother and father that longed for a child. I was born into extended family that valued togetherness and love and faith. From my earliest memory, I have been surrounded by a cloud of support and blessing. I say all of these things to declare that I am aware and appreciative of the fact that this is not offered to most children brought into the world.

When you are born into a picture of happiness, the world assumes that that every moment of every day looks like the Christmas card. Can we be honest? We were probably fighting 5 minutes before the picture was snapped. In our case, someone was complaining about the clothing choice or the temperature outside in July because we are in turtlenecks. There is a good chance that the ones standing next to each other are pinching or hitting each other between clicks of the camera. All in the most loving way, of course.

90% of the Norman Rockwell moments were just that. But there are those 10% moments. The ones that you can recall 35 years later and when you do, you are instantaneously transported to feelings of shame and guilt and unworthiness and worse. For me, these memories are defined by times when I perceived to be letting my mom and dad down. As I discussed yesterday, my wiring for perfection was paramount. There was nothing I wanted more than to make my parents proud.

As a child, this sets you up for automatic failure. There is no parent that can express enough love or extend enough favor to meet these unreasonable goals. And in the moments that my parents could not read my mind (because heck if I ever asked for what I needed) my unrealistic expectations were not met. From there, the spiral turned to resentment, followed by rebellion and crash landed on emotional distance.

Unlike the normal advent of the parent child/teen relationship, I never openly rebelled. I wasn't sneaking out or drinking or using drugs. My teenage rebellion consisted of wild nights of church camp pranks and youth group lock-ins. The primary tool I used for parental avoidance was dismissive teen angst fueled with the magnificent ability to stuff my feelings to avoid all hard conversations. The years of my advent provided me with the erroneous understanding that as long as you cleaned up the surface, the world would never know the truth.

How did this mode of operation prepare me for life? Well, it worked until it didn't. I would love to tell you that my relationship with my mom and dad has always been easy. But I have vowed to be honest and brave in this journey. The truth was that we all did the very best that we could with the skills that we had. Sometimes the road was rocky. Sometimes the pictures of perfection were masking some great pain. But most importantly in the season of Advent, we all survived. I was launched in into the birth of independence with the knowledge that I had a solid foundation when I was ready to do the hard work.

Day 2: In a Birth, There is a Longing

I was born on April 25, 1975. From all accounts, my entrance to the world brought with it a middle of the night car ride, a clueless first time dad and mom who was thankful that her husband finally decided that indeed a hospital run was more important than sleep.  They had been waiting with excitement to be parents. Their plan had not gone according to their designed timing...you know waiting is the theme of Advent, right? And so on that exciting night, we became a family of 3.

I was a perfect first child. I was brilliant and picture worthy. I was the first grandchild on one side and the first girl on the other. Both set the stage for a plethora of dresses and bows and curlers and ruffles and dreams. Being in the prime of 70's culture the photos also include velour and bell bottoms and big hair. I forgive you all.

I will share more about the individual players and personalities in the days to come, but the overriding theme of preparation that lays foundational groundwork for the advent of my life were the events of the next 3 years. As legend goes, my parents were encouraged by physicians to seize the success of my birth and try again soon if they desired a second child. And so, 15 months after my birth, my sister arrived. If that was not enough excitement for all, 18 months later my parents were surprised to be the proud co-creators of 3 children under the age of 3.

Take a moment and sit in solidarity for my mom. Praise the Lord that she survived.

I was in diapers. I was 32 months old and I was handed the reigns of BIGGEST Sister. While this makes a cute picture and a lovely cartoon, it played out over the next few decades as a developmental track for a bossy, driven, perfectionistic and overcritical developing brain. Out of shear survival insist, I was thrust into a "grown up" role of responsibility and rule following during a formational time of my life.

The advent of my coming of age was shaped by being the first and the pace setter. Two formative things played out during the preparation for adulthood. The first was that my sister and I were often defined by being a singular unit. Sure we were two people, but in friendships, in activities and in the world of zone parenting, we were the "girls" and we moved as a force. As I will explain further, this was the best and sometimes the worst. To this day, she is often my first line of defense against the world. But to a developing heart, there were times that I lost myself in our communal grouping. The second advent revelation was my early formed desire to allow my parents to take care of the "little" ones because I COULD DO IT MYSELF. I'm quite confident that I expressed that passion in all ways including my voice and tone.

I was the strong headed bull Taurus that come hell or high water was going to make MY way THE way. I can vividly remember throwing my siblings under the trouble bus before they could even speak in favor of my dominance. I can remember the many times that my mom and I would lock heads in conflict and at the same time get each other better than most, because let's be honest I'm a wonderful, gifted, creative mini-Lyn.

I need you to know these insights as we begin this journey because for better and for worse, they will be common threads in my life. What was developed in this formational waiting season laid the groundwork for big successes and desperate failures. As with any formational traits, they can be used for glory and distorted in moments of great pain.

May this reminder be a beacon to each of us to longingly call on the themes of advent: hope, peace, joy and love as we develop and draw towards the Creator and Creation.

Day 1: What is Advent?

It is only right that we start the year with waiting. What?

That's right. The first day of the liturgical year is 4 Sundays prior to December 25th and it this season is called Advent. In case you are already confused, let's simplify. The first day of the church new year is usually in November, not January 1st, as the calendar on the wall would say. And we begin with waiting.

Advent, as a season, is the balance of celebratory anticipation. As we celebrate the season, we are reminded of the Old Testament longing for the desperation for and the revelation of a Savior in Jesus. At the same time, we long for the return of Christ in the age to come. Its both, reflection and longing. Advent is a period of preparation, of tempered longing, but not of penance. Advent at its core is a season of joy.

So what do we do about the context of our modern world and the insanity that ensues this time of year? Let me go out on a limb and say that there is NOTHING about the worldly context of holiday celebration that is expectant and tempered and anticipatory. Matter of fact, some of the crazy can already be found in the aisles of craft stores. Merry Christmas...in August!

Before we go any further, you must know this about me. I LOVE the Christmas season. I love the build up and thoughtful gifts and generous outpouring of hope. I come from a family that has woven the love of celebration deep in my bones and heart and internal clock. But as an adult, the soul tending season of Advent as taken root and defined my context of celebration. I have no patience for those that sing "Joy to the World" on December 7th, because we NEED to learn to wait. We can celebrate, but to fully embrace the significance of the Christ Child, we need to place our heart (if not our decor) in a place of longing.

So, we enter the year with waiting. If you have ever had a season where the road was not clear or the outcome was not quickly revealed or the answer you longed for was not immediately given, you know about waiting. In the midst of it, it can be heartbreaking and hard. But for those that have waited and walked to the other side, you know that waiting is often our time of spiritual growth. For me, the advents of life are the times when my character is formed and my spirit matures.

Happy New Year!

Why Liturgy? A Preface

I belong to a diverse people. I am surrounded by those who love the church. There are many that follow Jesus with excitement. There are also those that run far from all things religious. When they hear the word liturgy, they think HELL NO. I am not reading Lacy's blog for the next 100 days because liturgy means rules and weird traditions and a color chart and Confirmation class.

To all my people:
The word liturgy is derived from the technical term in ancient Greek ( λειτουργία), leitourgia, which literally means "work of the people." It is not a set of rules. It is not something that has to be done perfectly. It is not even confined to what happens (or doesn't happen) in the worship gatherings of certain types of churches. It is simply, in it's purest form, the collection of people focusing their hearts and lives on connecting to the Divine. The liturgical calendar is simply a tool that is used by Christians throughout the world to connect the work of the people to the work of God.

The liturgical calendar leads us through seasons and rhythms that emphasize the importance of designated times for penance and celebration and mourning and hope and community and intimacy, all with the goal of drawing us deeper into our connection with God. As I have re-explored this topic in recent time, I have been blessed to have the wisdom of Sr. Joan Chittister as a guide. In her book The Liturgical Year: The Spiraling Adventure of the Spiritual Life, Sr. Joan helped me to see more fully the personal implications of this corporate journey.

"The liturgical year is the process of coming back year after year to look at what we already know on one level, but are newly surprised by again and again. To live the liturgical year is to keep our lives riveted on one beam of light called the death and Resurrection of Jesus and its meaning for us here and now. One. Just one."    - Sr. Joan

The format for my walk through the next 100 days will help us enter into each season with a day of contextual information. Before writing about my own experience of a season, I will write about the background of the season itself. For instance, Day 1 will help us form an understanding of Advent. What it is? Why and how is it celebrated? Why is it a crucial season in spiritual formation?

The subsequent days will include my own stories of the season. Rather than telling stories from many seasons of my life, I am telling my 42 years as one journey through the liturgical calendar. While our calling is to experience the calendar anew each year, I have found it helpful in process and revelation to place my own journey in the context of a bigger story - the one great story of God's rhythm of redemption.

Some seasons are single posts. Some seasons take 20 stories to express the complete experience. Some stories are hard. Because death is hard. Some stories are celebratory...hello, Pentecost! But all of my stories are significant because they vividly depict the journey from waiting to birth to celebration to turning. From running to dying to life to fullness. This is the story of faith. Over and over and over again.

Welcome to Liturgical Faith.

My 100 Day Journey

You should write a book.

Somehow that seems like the thing to say to people that write. When I hit publish on first blog post, the fear was overwhelming. What if it sounds stupid? What if no one thinks I am funny? What if I am the only person that reads this?

Just like anything else in my world, I have come to the place where I understand that my writing will reach the places and people that it supposed to reach. I know that for some postings, the intended audience is myself. What I needed was the encouragement to put words to thoughts and feelings and then let it go. So, I have.

But this thought of a book has been mulling in my mind space. I had an idea. I had a vision. Should I do it? Here's the truth - maybe there is a book in me somewhere, but I have decided to share my vision in the context of my blog. I am constantly amazed by people's love to create. I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by dedicated creators and life-learners. Some of my favorites are participating in a 100 day challenge beginning on Monday, August 14th. Want to join? There are artist, dreamers, students of prayer and meditation and yes, this writer. Daily, from August 14 -November 21, I will be sharing this space with you as I unpack something I am calling Liturgical Faith.

There are two things I know about my life:
1. It is a story full of journey.
2. It is rhythmically continual.

We all understand that with each passing 365 day cycle, we begin again. This is true of the church calendar, as well. In each year, we look to the seasons for the consistent pattern of progress. Unlike the calendar on your phone or your wall, the church calendar usually begins in late November with a season known as Advent. From there, we celebrate Christmas and Epiphany followed by ordinary time. We then continue with Ash Wednesday, which points us to the season of Lent. There are significant days that lead to Easter that include Holy Thursday, Good Friday, The Easter Vigil and Resurrection Sunday. But did you know that Easter is 50 days? You will learn more! Easter is completed on Pentecost and then we return again to ordinary time. For those that are already lost, you have 100 days and specific explanations to fill you in on the meaning and significance of each of these seasons.

My 42 trips through the 365 day calendar have given me appreciation for the changing but predictable rhythms of my spiritual life. I have spent time planning these 100 days of writing while praying that the stories will encourage you and the connection to our faith history will engage you. More than anything, I pray that you will be motivated to see YOUR story as God's great story. If there are spaces and seasons that you connect with, let me know. If there are stories that are your stories, be brave enough to say, "ME TOO!"

One of the things that I know for sure is that we are better together. I don't think that the mode matters, so in this season I will forgo the book for the journey of a daily blog. Perhaps in this 100 day journey we will find each other more connected, more filled and more aware that this world is not without a great Hope.

My Good Friend Rob

15 years ago, I sat in the main hall at the National Youth Worker’s Convention and was introduced to a pastor that would dramatically change the trajectory of my ministry and life. He was engaging. He was interesting. He was talking about our roots and calling us to look deeper at the text. He had black rimmed glasses and wore skinny jeans before the fad was cool for men. He was so intriguing.

The following year, I decided to take an intensive course from him at NYWC and I sat for 8+ hours listening to him undo much of what I knew to be the 'gospel' of church work. He talked about sabbath and boundaries and authenticity. He confessed to doubt and disgust. This was unheard of in my church world. The following day, he was a main stage speaker and he engaged the hearts of thousands with a teaching on the ancient Jewish prayer shawl. He talked about the beauty and necessity of going to that quiet place and the sacred gift of being honest with God. And he promised us that God could handle anything we had to say.

Right on the convention room floor, I crawled to my hands and knees, put my face on my chair and wept. I’m sure that Lucas (who was attending with me that year) was terrified at the puddle of emotions that were oozing from my 2’x2’ folded body. There in that space, I was pastored and challenged and told that it was not ok to minister from an empty shell. Over the next 3 years, I followed and listened and devoured anything that came from a church named Mars Hill in Grand Rapids, MI. As he planted and pastored this community, he did so with a revolutionary voice.  I used his Nooma videos to teach and lead students and adults. I could not get enough because this was an expression of faith unlike anything that I had ever heard.  

And then something transformational took place. He wrote a book. About faith. And called it Velvet Elvis. That should say so much about this guy. He was clear that he did not speak in the language known to be safe and Jesus-y. I loved every word. To this day, I have multiple copies on my bookshelf at anytime to hand out to those wanting to ask questions. 

This book release coincided with a season in my own ministry that I knew I was being called out of my current understanding of church culture. What I was comfortable with was just that, comfortable. And in this season, I left full time vocational ministry for the uncomfortable world of listening. I didn’t know that in the decision to step away from traditional church life I was entering a season of and study and challenge and babies and church planting and personal bankruptcy and a call to return to wholeness and leadership.  

This journey played itself out over the last 10 years, and one of the most consistent voices of Jesus and bigger love and audacious grace has been Rob Bell. During the past decade I have seen him speak at a night club, a concert hall and on a college campus. Lucas and I took his grandparents to hear him speak in a historic theatre in San Antonio. I have traveled to southern California to sit with him for 2 days and smell the ocean as he moved his ministry from the local church to a global speaking ministry. I even have a letter he wrote to our elder board as a dear mutual friend encouraged us as leaders. And in each of these memories, I have so many deep, deep treasured holy moments. 

He has released books that have met me at my points of pain (Sex God and Jesus Wants to Save Christians) and he has ushered me into the sacred gift of creativity in faith. He has pushed me as a teacher and thinker, most recently with What is the Bible? I have followed and prayed for him as he was lifted high as a leader in the modern church and then destroyed by the Christian machine for introducing topics and conversations that were seen as threatening. I’ve listened to the RobCast with great excitement as he introduces people to a deeper desire to BE hope rather than just talk about it. He is passionate, creative, brilliant and someone that I still see as a soul builder many years later. 

When I went to his 2Day conference, I traveled with a dear friend and we shared space with 50 other men and women. This intimate group talked and encouraged and worked though the crisis of faith and church that many were navigating. At the end of the experience, Rob served each of us communion. I was 4 years sober at the time, and the cup offered to us was wine. In that moment, I was crushed that this sacred space was invaded for me by my own inability to fully participate in the meal. I was physically and emotionally devastated. The saving expression of gratitude was a journey to the beach that night whereby my friend reminded me of the waters of my Baptism which jarred me to the realization that God is not finished with me. Not even close.

Today, I am back on a plane to San Jose, CA. Tonight I am going to spend 24 hours alone working on a dream that was planted in my heart through my desire to never stop growing. Tomorrow, I will join my dear bonus sister at a retreat center in Santa Cruz to once again spend a few days being pastored by my good friend Rob. 

I am so thankful for his passion to never stop seeking God. 

I love the way that he is unafraid to speak redemption in the darkest corners. 

I am challenged by the way that he loves all and is bold about his truth. 

Maybe this time I can get the fangirl lump out of my throat and actually speak to him. 

I know. 

I KNOW. 

I Don't Want To Be The Church-y Words Lady

You know her. The one whom every time she talks phrases like "I'll pray for you" and "God told me" and "I feel led" are woven into every story. Every good story evokes a "I am so blessed" and every story of struggle ends with "God won't give me more than I can handle." Yeah, I just cringe.

If you have ever lived through hell on earth, you know what it is like to hear the dreaded church-y words. Somewhere, perhaps in the grocery store or the prayer room or the funeral home, you've heard these:

I wonder what God is going to teach you in this season?
I know that (insert name of loved one) is going to be your angel in heaven.
Your continued battle with (disease of choice) will be lifted when you can fully put your trust in the Lord.
God would want you to know that...(whatever they learned at church last week).

I know every line. I have every possible church-ism memorized. I have wrongly used them myself. But, these words have a way of turning off listening ears. I just can't anymore.

Here's why:
I don't think that my dad has cancer because I needed more faith.
I can't trust a God that would take a loved one so that I could have an angel.
I cannot wrap my heart around a Savior that requires me to have perfect trust in order to avoid addiction.
I would rather you model for me how to listen to God than offer unsolicited faith bombs about things that you don't understand.

Obviously, these have happened one or hundreds of times to me. I'm a bit jaded. I know. And that's why I hesitate to tell stories like I am about to tell you. But, here is the thing. I can't listen and ask and seek a God that I am not willing to respond to. So, I trust that as you read this story, you know the heart of the over-spiritualizing avoiding gal from which it comes.

This story starts in a place of brokenness. I must confess that I really have a hard time with women. Go ahead, laugh. God laughs at me all the time. I have never been one to enjoy girl drama. I don't really like emoting. I couldn't care less about chit-chat and I have no tolerance for triangle relationships and gossip. Before you tell me that this is an unfair generalization, please know that 4 years at a girl's high school, involvement in a college sorority and 10 years on PTA's and booster clubs have given me more than a fair sampling and experiences. Oh, and did I mention that I'm a mom of two teenage girls? I win.

In my friendships, I gravitate toward men (insert all the reasons my boundaries are screwed up...I already know them) because I am a get-er-done, not afraid of conflict, tend to roll right over feelings kind of gal. I've worked hard on this, but in my wiring I am command driven and worn thin by underproduction. So, going to a meeting where 80% of the room is male means I get to use the words and they usually just want to solve a problem and move on. This is my jam. I say all of this to tell you that time and time and time again, I have be driven to my breaking point, only to find the hope and the solution in the heart of other women. This is God's great joke, I mean blessing, to me.

The older I get, the more I understand that I NEED women in my life. I need women that accept and love me as I was created. Fortunately, I have found them. They are my people. They know that when I cannot do anymore people-ing, I don't pick up the phone. They know that friendship with me often looks like GIFs of Snoop Dogg, snarky comebacks and group texts. All of which, I might add are heart felt tokens of trust and affection.

Let me get to the point. Not all women get me. I am a big personality. I charge headlong into a problem like a solution finder on a mission. I have been known to stop a story mid-crisis and suggest that we talk solution rather than war story. That's just me. And just like I know people don't get me, I don't always get others. This happens to be a huge problem in ministry. By gender and calling, most assume that I am the squishy lovey one. Nope. I really don't even like hugs.

This leads me to the nail salon. Last Friday, I was sitting in a moment of rest having my toes painted. For the previous 5 days, I had been mulling the fact that a weekend conference for women that I had scheduled a group to attend was cancelled. Now with the preceding few paragraphs, you probably assume that I was relieved. I was not. Because now I have my people. Many of my girls were headed to Dallas to listen to other women speak about life and growing up and Jesus. I was genuinely disappointed.

As I had my old toe nail polish removed, I had a stirring (I know churchy word, just go with me). What if I gathered a few of these great women and we shared our weekend in League City? So, I did what I do in these moments, I floated this idea to one of my people. This was literally the text back: "I would love to...God "nudged" me toward women's ministry today....hmmmm."

So, now what? On to my next text. The foot massage (or the Holy Spirit) quickly brought two women to the forefront of my mind. Both sent back immediate responses and by the time she was working on my post youth camp callouses, I had speakers. What else do we need? Music! Yoga! Stillness! I know some people. The text invites continued through the polish and the drying and the next two hours. In 3 hours, we had a vision, a theme, teaching topics, 4 speakers, two worship leaders and a yoga teacher.

If I had wanted to plan a dinner party, I can assure you that I could not get these 7 friend's schedules to coordinate in the next few months. Yet in hours, I had some of the busiest women I know committed to a weekend THIS September to remind other women that we are created...invited...included...loved. In the following 24 hours, we had a place to hold it, we had a dance company to inspire us and we had online registration up and running.

I'm good. But the work that took place in those 24 hours was divinely inspired work of a Faithful God that knows exactly what we need. There is no other language but the goofiest sounding words to describe how the carved out space and time and passion and heart of leaders, and excitement of the participants, has formed on Holy Ground.

There are times when phrasing is empty. There are times when I think people over exaggerate the intricacies with which the Divine is at work (i.e. I don't think God cares who wins Big Brother). But then there are times when we get out of the way and become vessels for God to show off. I have been moved to say some pretty goofy things about The Table in the past week. I have been acutely aware that I sound a little too excited. And for the record, I don't care. The truth of this story is that when you place yourself in the stream of hope and love that surrounds people who are longing for real life,  God honoring friendships, things like this happen. And sometimes the only way to explain it is to proclaim, I AM SOOOOO BLESSED!

I would be honored for anyone to join us for this amazing weekend.
Want to join us at The Table? Register HERE 

For The Love of Cheesestraws, Wifi and The Golden Arches

It's been a day. One of those days that included a few things that I would have preferred to never experience. One that included quality time with people that I adore, but in a setting that I could have done without. Sometimes, I think these sentences describe adulting. And for the record, adulting is hard work.

I have moments that I flashback to childhood and try to remember what it was like to not know things. I have moments where I struggle to remember that I am old enough to be the responsible party for my children, myself or for other adults that depend on me. I often startle myself in the realization that I am a middle age grown up. In my mind, I'm 23, carefree and singing along with the MTV Party to Go album. One out of three is still truth.

When I left downtown Houston at 5:15pm - which for the record, defines adulting - I needed a respite. I knew it would be a long drive home, so I reached for the new Jen Hatmaker podcast and settled in. While paying full attention to the busy traffic patterns, I may have been furiously trying to finish the download of this highly anticipated gem. No luck. I only had 3 seconds downloaded.

During the day, my mom gave me a small baggie of cheese crack. If you are from the South, you know these baked delicacies to be called Cheese Straws. After a day of not eating and facing a rush hour crisis, I dug into my bag for the golden Ziplock of goodness. It was full when I started. By the time I reached the Loop, empty. I did manage to snap this picture before I ate the last two. If you have never had these, you must find your favorite southern cook and beg them for a batch. Seeing the crumbs in the bottom of the bag did nothing to help my mood.

In the safest of distracted driving ways, I realized my slower than usual data (thank you teens and summer road trips) would not allow a timely retrieval. In that moment, a stroke of genius hit. FREE wifi! With a deep sigh and a prayer to 7lb 6oz Baby Jesus, I called on the gods of the Golden Arches to come to my rescue. Not only would this allow a speedy download, but their far superior filtration system would produce the necessary caffeine for the journey. As I came over the next Loop 610 hill (I mean, overpass), the golden "M" rose into the sky and I may or may not have let out an audible cry of relief. I whipped into the parking lot, $1.08 in hand, and scanned for the public wifi. Nothing. One need was met, but the mission would not be complete without Jen.

If you know Houston, you know that the area east of 288 and south of 610 is industrialized. I falsely assumed that while driving along Mykawa, I would find a public wifi or 10. Nope. I was holding my iPhone in my hand like an antenna and I'm sure that everyone in the area thought I was the crazy suburban mom trying to assist Waze in leading me out of an area that I did not belong.

I found myself at the intersection of the Tollway and Telephone Rd. I had yet to find a public wifi and I was desperate. Being someone who has suffered at the hands of drug induced paranoia, I can fully say that in that moment, I was getting desperate. I knew I was going home to fighting teenage girls (the texts were colorful and numerous for more than and hour), a husband that had a long day at work and no dinner on the table.

Jen's new podcast is entitled "For the Love." In that moment on Beltway 8, that was my cry. That and GIVE ME A FREAKING BREAK. ALL  I WANT IS MY COKE AND MY CHEESESTRAWS AND MY JEEEENNNNN! Things were now past desperate and I did the only thing I knew to do. I opened my Starbucks app and found the closest location.

As I sped into the parking lot, I was a sad case. I could not get a strong enough signal from the car, so I grabbed my phone and parked. As I was walking in, I remembered that I had fresh cold caffeine in the car, so I bought the next best thing...iced lemon pound cake. With my cake in hand, I walked to the corner of the store, stood next to the trashcan and logged onto the network like an addict in withdrawal. Seriously, I did not even have a thought about taking a seat. I STOOD in the corner hitting *refesh* like a spastic fool.

The moment it loaded, I ran to the car. Connected to Bluetooth, a familiar voice and humor and laughter filled my car. I don't know Jen, but I KNOW her. The episode was the first in the series 'For the Love of Girlfriends'. She interview one of her dear friends and I listened like the three of us were sharing lemon cake and Coke in my Sequoia. Honestly, there was nothing profoundly earth shattering. They talked about intentionality and hospitality and investment. I had been doing those things all day, and I was blessed by them. What I needed in that moment was to be reminded that I am not on this journey of crazy alone. We all do it. We carry and hold and give away the weight of life in the dance of love. In our families and friendships, with our co-workers and co-parenters, we live out the highs and the lows.

And even on days when I don't want to be a grown up, I wear my inherited role with joy and pride and love. It's a weighty job, this adulting thing. But I can honestly say that there is nothing better than standing beside the ones you love, laughing when you want to cry and doing it all For The Love.

Why Retiring From Student Ministry Is Not An Option

I went to youth camp as an "adult" for the first time in the summer of 1996. I was 21. I'm still not sure what anyone was thinking to allow me to be counted as an adult, but my birthday showed that I qualified, so I went. I was not old enough to drive the church van. I was only a few years older than some of the campers. I was in a season of discerning God's desire for my life. To say that I was struggling would be an understatement.

I also happened to be working as a youth intern that summer and while I learned much about Jesus and vocational ministry, I also learned to drink beer off the church radar and where to get tattoos in Houston. These are all key pieces of my journey. While the drinking is no longer a part of my vision for wholeness, I have 4 meaningful pieces of skin art and I have dreams for more. I digress.

I write today from the bathroom floor following one of the craziest camp stories. Last summer, Lucas and I took our youth to camp. We went to Florida. It was great. We laughed. We heard engaging speakers. There was an amazing band with strobe lights and smoke machines. We played on the beach. But when we left, I knew that this camp was super and fun and attractive, but it wasn’t us. We intentionally don’t do over programed student ministry. 

So when we set out to plan for a camp experience this year, I kept hitting walls. Some self imposed, some schedule imposed, some Spirit imposed. I’m going to spare you all of the details, but I can’t over emphasize how I had nothing to do with the final outcome of my search. Either Google or the Holy Spirit or both led me to an organization called Passport. 

When I read the mission statement for this camp, I was completely intrigued:

"Faith does not have to be complicated, but there are requirements. Following Jesus with our lives demands action. To expect justice we must learn to recognize and intercede on behalf of the oppressed. To be kind often means putting others’ needs first. And walking humbly only happens when we stop looking for acknowledgment. Faith in Christ is simple, but that does not mean it is  always easy."

I called the camp headquarters and began with a series of probing questions. I asked some silly ones and some serious ones. I listened to their heart. I loved it. So 8 days ago, Lucas and I took 6 teenage girls to Danville, VA for a week of serving and fun and study and laughter and lots and lots and lots of love. Why? Let me tell you.

Because I cannot shake my love for teenagers. I have tried. I want to some days. Some people have this reaction around babies, some people have it around the elderly. I see a teenager and I want to dive headlong into their messy, broken, painful and perfect lives. I want to listen to their stories of friendship and dating and broken hearts. I want to be the one that they say, "I don't believe in God" to. I want to be the one who has the great privilege to look them in the eyes and say, "That's ok, because God believes in you."

I can remember early in my days of student ministry I realized that many pastors use students for theological practice sessions. It's the warm up for the main event. I have always resisted this idea, but it is only in the context of ministry in our church today that I have been able to place handles on the truth of my resistance. I can't outgrow student ministry because I can't separate students. It's all the same.

We wonder why students leave the church when they graduate high school? I am more and more convinced that we have sold them a lie that leads them to believe that creating a separate entertainment venue for them will connect them to Jesus and the Church. LIE. Our students didn't need a week on the beach or a cool band. They needed to be surrounded by kindness while they spread justice. They needed to see others from all over the country study about love and then live it out by building fences and feeding hungry children and serving the poor.

There is not a teenager today that does not need a companion that is a step ahead of them in their faith journey. There is not a teenager today that does not need to learn to serve and give their life away. There is not a teenager today that does not need to be a part of a community that teaches that it's not about their individual wants. And I would say that all of this is the mission and ministry of the Church. It's not found in a youth room in a separate wing of the building. It's not found in a smoke machine. It's not even found by hiring someone to keep the teenagers busy. Teenagers today are busy enough. They don't need one more thing to do. They need a church family that treats every teenager like every other person in the community.

So why do I still invest in teenagers after 21 years, many sleepless nights, 2,462 mile drives to Virginia and both of my kids telling me I'm to old for this? I do it because that is what the church is all about. This is what God created me to do. This is what I love. I love to help people know that they are deeply loved by the Creator. I love to help people understand that there is not one thing that we can do to make God love us any less. And, I love to help people find a place of community and trust in a world where that is so very hard to find.

It was vital that we attended a camp that showed our students that we believe that their season is unique, but the calling is the same. That is what Passport did for our students this week. We arrived back in League City last night at 7pm. This morning, our campers were at church. Some were serving in kid's ministry, some were teaching our elementary students the songs we learned at camp, and all of us were clear that our call to Do Justice, Love Kindness, and Walk Humbly is something that has no age requirement. 

By the way, I still hate stupid games. I really suck at dancing to Katy Perry. I know that I ask too many questions. And I'm still going to camp next year. Not because it is the cool thing to do. Not because I need to keep my kids busy for a week. I'm going because I need to serve and learn and grow and be taught by young people and they need to know that there are adults that value them so much that they will make ridiculous drives and sleep on uncomfortable beds all in the name of reaching every single person with the love of a great big God.

Why I Hate Colorado

Have you ever met someone and within 10 minutes you knew you needed them in your life? The kind of person that is VERY different from you but at the same time encourages you to be the best version of yourself? I believe wholeheartedly that people are placed in my life for seasons. In June of 2011, a name came across my email and I had no idea the impact that this person would make on my life. At the time, he was living across the country and we had never met. In July of that year, I drove to Intercontinental Airport in Houston and met my new friend in person for the first time. He talked funny. Being from Chicago will do that to you. He always has a water bottle nearby. I don't drink much water. He likes hockey and knew very little about southern college football. All of these things were pointing in the wrong direction.

He looked curiously at my car decor, which included references to Jesus with colorful language. He thought the Evil Queen floating head in the passenger seat was mildly disturbing. And then we started laughing. Looking back on it, I'm quite certain that in many of our initial conversations the laughter was aimed at me, but I can see why.  I'm entertaining.

This friend moved to Texas in early 2012 to be our pastor. The first year was educational for both of us. He learned to embrace my sarcastic and naturally negative outlook. I gave him grief about capri pants for men. We spent many an hour at Starbucks as he learned the ways of Texas church-isms. I loved his naive and yet wise approach to the modern church. Most of all, I loved the way he questioned things that seemed unquestionable in my mind. Some of them, he has never embraced and I adore that about him.

While our coffee/tea conversations have been heavily church related, we have shared many a laugh and sometimes a tear about our lives and families and challenges. We have talked books and authors. We have critiqued each other's teachings. We have pushed each other to think in new ways. More than once we have had hard conversations where I have been called to change for the better. I can count on one hand the people that I trust enough to call me out on things in every area of my life and he is certainly on that list.

Six years ago, I had no idea that I was meeting someone that would forever change the landscape of who I am as a pastor, teacher, leader, mentor, mom and friend. He's the kind of encourager that never forgets the things that matter to you. He's the kind of spouse that I want to take lessons from. He's the kind of student of life that I want to sit in a class with. And, he's the kind of friend that I am thankful to call mine.

These pesky leadings of the Holy Spirit to follow God's call are my nemesis in dear friendship! Why must we listen when we are called to the next season? Colorado is not that exciting. Who needs snow and mountains and adventure? Use your gifts and talents to serve the Church in Texas. We know we are weird and people I love should want to stay here forever. Amen.

That is where I find myself this week.

Today, I had a Tex-Mex going away lunch with my friend. I'm struggling with this goodbye not because I will miss him teaching me on Sunday, which I will, but because he has changed me. Leading the Church alongside my friend has reminded me why I believe in the Church and why we cannot let go of who we are called to be. Being called to personal wholeness by my friend has forced me to value play and laughter and positivity. He has not convinced me that being outside is wonderful or that working out is fun or that I should drink water from a bottle. But, he has made a mark on me in this season that I cannot deny.

He also hates that I have just written this and that's just one more reason that I had to do it. I will be gone on his final Sunday at ECL, so I can't say it from the stage. I also could not string together three sentences at lunch without tearing up, so there is that. It is rare that you are gifted a friend like Matt Boyle. He is class. He is grace. He is just plain good. May these words honor my friend and remind us all that precious, solid friendships are truly a gift from the one who desires for us to live in the beauty of community.