training wheels

yesterday was my first morning at Haygood UMC as official intern. having signed up this past Wednesday to be on the Sunday School roster as a floating substitute teacher, i received my first assignment as such with about 36 hours to spare. i excitedly accepted the task of leading the Fellowship Class, the oldest age bracket of Sunday Schoolers at Haygood, with the promise that a lesson plan would be forwarded to me via email.

as it turned out, the curriculum book stopped short of September, so i was next asked to come up with a lesson on the fly. no problem, really, but i have never attended this particular class before and felt slightly unsettled about teaching them without having met any of them. and then there was the added fact that this class, i was told, doesn't like interactive learning. so basically, i needed to prepare a lecture/sermon as my lesson.

what else is work in ministry but the call to dive right in, whether you are fully prepared with swimsuit and floaties or not?

so i joined the Fellowship class and was privileged to deliver a message to Haygood's oldest members. i felt so very humbled to try and speak about God to these 80 and 90 year old folks who know so much more of life than i do. but that's just what i did. they were so excited to welcome me there in the first place, and after Buddy, the class leader, led us in a few hymns and announcements, i took the podium. we looked at Psalm 62 and reflected on waiting for God to speak. i shared about my brief stint in Kentucky and how that failed experience led me, ultimately, to Candler. i sang "A Mighty Fortress is Our God" (because i love it when preachers sing in their sermons). i cross-referenced the Beatitudes and Mary's Magnificat and Job. i think i pounded the podium a time or two. and, as i closed with a reflection and prayer on 1 Kings 19, i felt coursing within my being the very presence of the living God and felt confident that God had answered my opening prayer to speak through me. it felt like one of those anointing moments, those times of reminder that yes, this is what you're supposed to be doing. preaching feels real good, y'all, even if this was something of a training wheels experience.

after the class ended, i robed-up and joined the choir for the first time. i am so thrilled to be singing again, and thankful to be able to serve in this way. the opening hymn for the service was "Here I Am, Lord" which is basically a call narrative song (a la Isaiah 6 or 1 Samuel 3). this is one of the hymns i remember from the church of my childhood. and the lyrics really just moved within me yesterday, simple as they are:

here I am, Lord/is it I, Lord?
I have heard you calling in the night.
I will go, Lord/if you lead me. 
I will hold your people in my heart. 

the whole morning was a reaffirmation, a reminder of the path that i am on, of the call that i have answered. it was also an occasion of thanksgiving for the grace of God in loving me and using me despite my proneness to wander. but the voice of God calling in the night seems to be coming clearer and clearer as i progress through my time at Candler. i am confident, too, that my experience at Haygood will be incredibly formative in shaping me further towards that call. now, i know that every Sunday morning will not leave me feeling anointed and filled with the Spirit, as i felt yesterday, but there is so much space for growth in the course of this year, and i am eager to embark upon this journey. by the end of it, i pray and trust that my training wheels will be removed and I'll start pedaling on, steady and sure.

****

on another note entirely, remember when i said a couple of posts ago that i was thankful to stay friends with this guy with whom i have recently broken off any romantic inclinations? that plan has failed. after a week of spending lots of good time together, i found myself crying on the side of the road at 2am as a party that we were both attending began to wind down. i mean, i let out this cathartic sobbing, set off by i-don't-know-what, that showed me that being his friend right now just isn't possible. and that hurts so much--though i know it will be less painful in the long run. but i've just spent 3 months apart from this guy, who, at the core of our relationship, amidst all this unnecessary drama and these confused signals and expectations, is my best friend. i missed him for those 3 months, and now i have to impose another period of separation--that sucks. but, as the fray remind us, "sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same." for now.  but here's what i am thankful for: friends who will let you cry on their shoulders, roommates who will come pick you up in the middle of the night, friends who bring you lattes and muffins and listen to you talk it all through. as i pick up the pieces of this ridiculous mess, i'm so thankful for the people in my life who've stood beside me and brushed my hair back as i've cried.

i've got these two nasty, deep scars on my arms from my crash-landing after riding the plastic tub down the staircase (at patrick's house, no less). i've never had rug burns this deep before, and they hurt, they won't stop hurting. and they're ugly. these burns have been these odd little physical tokens of the emotional hurt i've been going through. i acquired them from a shared, fleeting moment of joy, laughter, and pleasure. the crash landing was painful, but it took some time before the injuries fully manifested. and now i just hurt, no matter how many band-aids i use to try and cover up the cuts. i can forget about the pain for a time, but then i'll bump against something abrasive that makes it smart and sting anew. and there will be scars.

just like my skin is fragile and soft, so is the shell of my emotional being.  i wear my heart on my sleeve. i give of myself wholly and fully in relationship .i trust.  i invest and i care. so it hurts that much more when someone seemingly goes back on that trust, or can't return the emotional investment. that's nobody's fault really, especially not here, with him. he does care for me and hasn't tried to hurt me. it's just the risk you run when you love (in the platonic sense) so boldly.

like so many scars on our arms are our disappointed hearts.