I'm a strange bird. Of all the things I should expect to miss since walking away from youth ministry, you'd never consider this to be near the top of my list:
I miss the fifteen passenger van.
It's funny to me. I led four different Spring Break trips to Florida: three of them were prominently sunny, staying in beachfront dormitories, with well rehearsed worship services. The first was rainy, cold, smaller, and less structured. Which one wound up being my favorite?
A few years after attending the St. Mark youth group during memorable day #8, I came to visit on a Sunday morning. I had recently been jaded by church politics during my ministry internship, and having found my "church home" back at camp, I figured I would quietly attend St. Mark that summer. My Bethel College worship leader led their worship, and a good number of their profs attended the church, so it was a comfortable place to visit. I had no intention of sticking around.
As the end of the summer rolled around, the youth pastor approached me and asked if I'd be willing to spend time with the kids, since we had already established a relationship with one another. He presented it as a win/win: he received a seasoned volunteer for whatever time God allowed, and I had a "resting place" to remain in service while I waited for Him to redeem my understanding of ministry. He told me that I could speak whenever the Lord placed something on my heart, and I would have his blessing to leave whenever God called me elsewhere.
Give an apostle the freedom to build a foundation and leave, and he'll seize it by the horns.
Nine months later, the group was about to take their annual Florida trip, and the youth pastor was expecting his second son. He couldn't risk being absent in the chance of an early delivery, so he asked if I could go. My vacation time was cleared, and it was a go.
There are kids that you will always remember fondly in ministry, but even rarer are the special groups that gel as a functioning body. I will remember that 14-hour drive for the laughter, the music, the fireworks, the food (YOU WANT TWO BIG N' NASTIES?!?), the flat tire, and the atypical lack of drama. Every one of these kids wanted to be together, and each of them held a special affinity for the group as a single unit.
We didn't need sunshine, dry sand, or live music to create the perfect environment for the Spirit of God. All we needed was one Body, and a van that would carry us to any destination.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
#6 - Thursday, February 14, 2002
Every pattern of behavior is established somewhere...
I totally get it: relationships are hard for everyone. My baggage and my hurts probably pale in comparison to most, and I've guarded myself from further pain by abstaining from romance in general. I don't know what it means to physically and emotionally connect with a woman through a sexual act, and I'm grateful that God has extended me that grace.
But our hearts are peculiar animals, and we usually cannot convince them what should or should not make them hurt. I could spend all day being told how wise I am in giving relationship advice, but I know where my own patterns are still skewed. I'd like to hope that I can speak into the lives of others with spiritual discernment and objectivity, but I haven't made enough practical use of my principles to grant full assurance. I must trust that God will make me His vessel, despite my brokenness.
I met Heather at a party during the year of my ministry internship. We fell for one another pretty fast. I hadn't dated since high school, and she was still healing from an abusive relationship a couple years prior. We shared the same interests and felt amazingly at ease with one another. Years later, after reestablishing a friendship with one another, she confessed how comfortable she was sharing silence with me. For a girl with an amazing gift for gab, this was a special honor.
That Valentine's Day, I had been scheduled to work until 9pm at Woodies, so I made dinner reservations for 10:30. We doubled with her cousin and her cousin's boyfriend. I brought Heather a single red rose, with a handwritten letter wrapped around the stem. Heather created a bouquet of "encouragement flowers" out of pipe cleaners and was shyly concerned all night that I wouldn't like them. I bought her dinner at Tippecanoe Place, one of the finest restaurants in South Bend. The night was beautiful, magical, and innocently romantic.
As I was driving Heather back to her cousin's apartment, I told her that stories like ours rarely continue. She was wide eyed on account of the evening, and assured me that we could maintain this level of intensity long-term. It was a couple months before her past was rehashed by people back home, and she grew scared that our relationship would become as unhealthy as the others she had endured. Suddenly, she felt trapped by the very intensity that drew her to me.
I can share this story with a great deal of grace and forgiveness. On the other side of my own baggage, I know how my heart and my mind are often not aligned. My heart can be crying out for its deepest longings, while my head wants nothing more than to resist the potential for heartache. It is not unforgiveness or bitterness that lingers, but the difficult task of battling nearly ten years of reinforced lies. I want to believe that my heart's desire can be matched. I want to believe that someone would have the same level of care for my life as I have for theirs. I don't want to begin a relationship because I can, or I should, or because someone is interested. I don't want her to complete me, for I am fully complete. I want her to be good. My service for God should be enhanced and His glory more greatly manifested through my union with her.
It has been hard work reviving what were once dormant feelings. I pray for the grace of a woman who admires that hard work, rather than despises what I am yet to be.
I totally get it: relationships are hard for everyone. My baggage and my hurts probably pale in comparison to most, and I've guarded myself from further pain by abstaining from romance in general. I don't know what it means to physically and emotionally connect with a woman through a sexual act, and I'm grateful that God has extended me that grace.
But our hearts are peculiar animals, and we usually cannot convince them what should or should not make them hurt. I could spend all day being told how wise I am in giving relationship advice, but I know where my own patterns are still skewed. I'd like to hope that I can speak into the lives of others with spiritual discernment and objectivity, but I haven't made enough practical use of my principles to grant full assurance. I must trust that God will make me His vessel, despite my brokenness.
I met Heather at a party during the year of my ministry internship. We fell for one another pretty fast. I hadn't dated since high school, and she was still healing from an abusive relationship a couple years prior. We shared the same interests and felt amazingly at ease with one another. Years later, after reestablishing a friendship with one another, she confessed how comfortable she was sharing silence with me. For a girl with an amazing gift for gab, this was a special honor.
That Valentine's Day, I had been scheduled to work until 9pm at Woodies, so I made dinner reservations for 10:30. We doubled with her cousin and her cousin's boyfriend. I brought Heather a single red rose, with a handwritten letter wrapped around the stem. Heather created a bouquet of "encouragement flowers" out of pipe cleaners and was shyly concerned all night that I wouldn't like them. I bought her dinner at Tippecanoe Place, one of the finest restaurants in South Bend. The night was beautiful, magical, and innocently romantic.
As I was driving Heather back to her cousin's apartment, I told her that stories like ours rarely continue. She was wide eyed on account of the evening, and assured me that we could maintain this level of intensity long-term. It was a couple months before her past was rehashed by people back home, and she grew scared that our relationship would become as unhealthy as the others she had endured. Suddenly, she felt trapped by the very intensity that drew her to me.
I can share this story with a great deal of grace and forgiveness. On the other side of my own baggage, I know how my heart and my mind are often not aligned. My heart can be crying out for its deepest longings, while my head wants nothing more than to resist the potential for heartache. It is not unforgiveness or bitterness that lingers, but the difficult task of battling nearly ten years of reinforced lies. I want to believe that my heart's desire can be matched. I want to believe that someone would have the same level of care for my life as I have for theirs. I don't want to begin a relationship because I can, or I should, or because someone is interested. I don't want her to complete me, for I am fully complete. I want her to be good. My service for God should be enhanced and His glory more greatly manifested through my union with her.
It has been hard work reviving what were once dormant feelings. I pray for the grace of a woman who admires that hard work, rather than despises what I am yet to be.
Monday, October 3, 2011
#7 - Wednesday, March 7, 2001
I received my greatest moments in college as a result of joining concert choir. During the first week of my freshman year, a guy down the hall said that he was going to choir auditions, and he asked if I'd like to tag along. I said "Okay, that sounds like something," and auditioned purely on a whim.
Nearly four years later, I had been to the Pacific Northwest, the upper Great Lakes, and had sung in Carnegie Hall on account of this "whim." My senior year, our choir planned a spring break tour on the Hawaiian islands. Trust me, I'd never been so excited to leave the Indiana cold.
After spending some time touring the Big Island (and drinking my first cup of 100% Kona!), we took a puddle-hopper to Kauai. Never in my life have I seen such a beautiful place. Each stop was wonderful: the food was fantastic, the sunsets were majestic, and our hosts were incredibly grateful to have us. As we traveled around the island to stop at one of the larger churches on our tour, we were given our host home assignments.
Eight of us men were incredibly disappointed when we discovered we would not have a host. We determined that we were specifically chosen because of our perceived ability to "rough it," thus we were stuck in a seldom used church parsonage in Koloa, HI, while our peers received the usual hospitality of a nice bed, a hot shower, and a large breakfast.
When we arrived at the church, we could see why it was chosen for our tour. The sanctuary would have barely held a third of us, but the people of the church had been kind enough to set an entire banquet table full of junkfood, for those that had now dubbed themselves the "Crazy Eights." A pile of donuts, chips, and drinks would have to be sufficient during our stay. The church had a small "closet" shower, and we didn't have any transportation to show us around the village.
Hungry from the travel, we decided to walk it. As we entered the small village of less than 2000, we found that every restaurant was closed, save the bars -- sort of an issue for a group of Bethelites. We decided to browse anyway and ended up singing some Boyz II Men harmonies to a pair of women in a custom soap shop. We didn't get a meal, but we did end up with free soap :)
The next day, we were driven to the beach. Compared to every other stay, this beach blew the others out of the water. The way the colors burst when the sun hit the water was breathtaking, and the beach itself was less densely populated than the touristy areas.
That evening, a group of around fifty from the church that housed us came to the beach for a worship service. We didn't have a piano to sing our entire performance, but we were able to oblige with a few a cappella pieces. As we surrounded the church body under a pavilion on the beach, we began singing Randall Thompson's Alleluia.
The perfect blend of our voices, the beach, the sunset, and the Spirit living in this congregation allowed His Presence to fall heavily upon us. Without question, it was the most profound time of worship I have experienced on this side of heaven.
[BTW: I've already decided that I will be marrying my future wife on that beach...I just hope that none of you are expecting a wedding invitation :) ]
Nearly four years later, I had been to the Pacific Northwest, the upper Great Lakes, and had sung in Carnegie Hall on account of this "whim." My senior year, our choir planned a spring break tour on the Hawaiian islands. Trust me, I'd never been so excited to leave the Indiana cold.
After spending some time touring the Big Island (and drinking my first cup of 100% Kona!), we took a puddle-hopper to Kauai. Never in my life have I seen such a beautiful place. Each stop was wonderful: the food was fantastic, the sunsets were majestic, and our hosts were incredibly grateful to have us. As we traveled around the island to stop at one of the larger churches on our tour, we were given our host home assignments.
Eight of us men were incredibly disappointed when we discovered we would not have a host. We determined that we were specifically chosen because of our perceived ability to "rough it," thus we were stuck in a seldom used church parsonage in Koloa, HI, while our peers received the usual hospitality of a nice bed, a hot shower, and a large breakfast.
When we arrived at the church, we could see why it was chosen for our tour. The sanctuary would have barely held a third of us, but the people of the church had been kind enough to set an entire banquet table full of junkfood, for those that had now dubbed themselves the "Crazy Eights." A pile of donuts, chips, and drinks would have to be sufficient during our stay. The church had a small "closet" shower, and we didn't have any transportation to show us around the village.
Hungry from the travel, we decided to walk it. As we entered the small village of less than 2000, we found that every restaurant was closed, save the bars -- sort of an issue for a group of Bethelites. We decided to browse anyway and ended up singing some Boyz II Men harmonies to a pair of women in a custom soap shop. We didn't get a meal, but we did end up with free soap :)
The next day, we were driven to the beach. Compared to every other stay, this beach blew the others out of the water. The way the colors burst when the sun hit the water was breathtaking, and the beach itself was less densely populated than the touristy areas.
That evening, a group of around fifty from the church that housed us came to the beach for a worship service. We didn't have a piano to sing our entire performance, but we were able to oblige with a few a cappella pieces. As we surrounded the church body under a pavilion on the beach, we began singing Randall Thompson's Alleluia.
The perfect blend of our voices, the beach, the sunset, and the Spirit living in this congregation allowed His Presence to fall heavily upon us. Without question, it was the most profound time of worship I have experienced on this side of heaven.
[BTW: I've already decided that I will be marrying my future wife on that beach...I just hope that none of you are expecting a wedding invitation :) ]
Sunday, October 2, 2011
#8 - Wednesday, October 13, 1999
During the summer of 1999, I had been suspended from my longtime summer camp job as a result of some sophomoric behavior the previous summer. Because my boss was generally pleased with my duties, he allowed the Teen Camp director to hire me at the end of the summer. Perhaps it was the perspective I gained from being away all year, but I had the most fantastic week ever. A dormitory mix that had me skeptical at first became a blessing: the perfect hodgepodge of musicians, athletes, academics, and outcasts.
On the third day of the week, a couple jocks that had volunteered to work children's church returned with a handful of children's books. In particular, they had grabbed Dr. Seuss titles. Primarily for reaction's sake, they asked me if I would read a Dr. Seuss book as a bedtime story. Having been a youngest child, I had never read a "bedtime story," and I certainly had never done so with 16-year-olds.
Miraculously, in contrast to the previous evenings, they rested soundly after I finished the first book. I decided to roll with it. For the next few nights, they returned to the dorm at 10:30, and I gave them 15 minutes to settle before they received their story. Continually reaping the same effective result, the teens began boasting to kids from the other dorms about their unconventional counselor.
The final evening as we laid in bed, I finished the story and asked if anyone had anything to share about their week. One of the older jocks shared with the others how he had judged them at the beginning of the week and was thankful that he got to know them all. One by one, these adolescent boys began sharing their gratitude for one another, and we decided to spend a little time in worship after the lights were turned off for the night.
I stayed in contact with a good number of these guys, so my heart broke immediately that October when I was given word that one of my boys (Chris) had died from a defect he unknowingly had since birth. I had personally never experienced a close death, so I timidly went to the viewing that Monday, not knowing how I would empathize. I was quickly welcomed by a crew of camp kids, many of which had come to know Chris better since camp, and were able to share a testimony of how he had grown in intimacy with Christ. They said that he was a changed man after returning, and that our dorm was as responsible for that as anyone.
We shared quite a few tears, and I received a phone call the next evening from Chris's youth pastor. He asked if I would be willing to come to their church that Wednesday to help with the grieving process. I figured it was the least I could do, so I was shocked when the church I was currently serving made it sound like a hassle for me to miss one Wednesday night. Inevitably, I didn't give them much of a choice, and I attended their memorial youth service.
Many of you may have lost someone close to you at an early age, and you might understand what a room full of fifty grieving kids might look like. It was heart-wrenching. Some parents attended as well, and it made for a very nice goodbye. It has been hard to reconcile many losses in my life, but it was clear that God was ready to reveal Himself by taking Chris.
Over the next few months, I received thank you notes from a few parents for my support, and Chris's friends spent a couple very heartfelt evenings with me at our denominational youth conference that December. In fact, the boy that was originally led by the Spirit to share at camp would pray for me the following summer as I committed my life to ministry. Few things are more memorable than young people grieving, but God divinely used Chris's life, death, and legacy to position me in a place where I could hear His call upon my life.
On the third day of the week, a couple jocks that had volunteered to work children's church returned with a handful of children's books. In particular, they had grabbed Dr. Seuss titles. Primarily for reaction's sake, they asked me if I would read a Dr. Seuss book as a bedtime story. Having been a youngest child, I had never read a "bedtime story," and I certainly had never done so with 16-year-olds.
Miraculously, in contrast to the previous evenings, they rested soundly after I finished the first book. I decided to roll with it. For the next few nights, they returned to the dorm at 10:30, and I gave them 15 minutes to settle before they received their story. Continually reaping the same effective result, the teens began boasting to kids from the other dorms about their unconventional counselor.
The final evening as we laid in bed, I finished the story and asked if anyone had anything to share about their week. One of the older jocks shared with the others how he had judged them at the beginning of the week and was thankful that he got to know them all. One by one, these adolescent boys began sharing their gratitude for one another, and we decided to spend a little time in worship after the lights were turned off for the night.
I stayed in contact with a good number of these guys, so my heart broke immediately that October when I was given word that one of my boys (Chris) had died from a defect he unknowingly had since birth. I had personally never experienced a close death, so I timidly went to the viewing that Monday, not knowing how I would empathize. I was quickly welcomed by a crew of camp kids, many of which had come to know Chris better since camp, and were able to share a testimony of how he had grown in intimacy with Christ. They said that he was a changed man after returning, and that our dorm was as responsible for that as anyone.
We shared quite a few tears, and I received a phone call the next evening from Chris's youth pastor. He asked if I would be willing to come to their church that Wednesday to help with the grieving process. I figured it was the least I could do, so I was shocked when the church I was currently serving made it sound like a hassle for me to miss one Wednesday night. Inevitably, I didn't give them much of a choice, and I attended their memorial youth service.
Many of you may have lost someone close to you at an early age, and you might understand what a room full of fifty grieving kids might look like. It was heart-wrenching. Some parents attended as well, and it made for a very nice goodbye. It has been hard to reconcile many losses in my life, but it was clear that God was ready to reveal Himself by taking Chris.
Over the next few months, I received thank you notes from a few parents for my support, and Chris's friends spent a couple very heartfelt evenings with me at our denominational youth conference that December. In fact, the boy that was originally led by the Spirit to share at camp would pray for me the following summer as I committed my life to ministry. Few things are more memorable than young people grieving, but God divinely used Chris's life, death, and legacy to position me in a place where I could hear His call upon my life.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
#9 - Saturday, September 6, 1997
A mere recognition of one’s sin is insufficient for salvation. Because we are saved by faith, through grace, I have a hard time understanding how one could believe in faith and be a recipient of grace, yet consider these as one would the contractual terms of an agreement. It is the very act of grace that compels and drives me to give my entirety to God.
I know that I have chosen the proverbial “road less traveled,” but how could I not? To believe that the only thing separating a believer from an unbeliever is the verbal terms of a prayer -- this is misconceived at best, and heresy at its worst. Grace is much more than God’s willingness to “look past” my sin. Grace is God’s deep and mysterious love provoking Him to resist serving the wages that I deserve -- and I deserve to die!
I didn't always understand my faith in this way. From the point of recognition and “the prayer of salvation” in 1992, I assumed that I was saved, and I wasn't too concerned with how I lived from that point forward. But scripture reveals to me that salvation is an ongoing action: that we are being perfected into the image of our Maker. I soon realized, I could not reflect the image of a God that I did not know.
I made a late decision to attend Bethel College in the fall of 1997. I was hardly a beacon of light for the Kingdom, but something (His Spirit) was calling me forth. I previously had every intention of attending a state school for journalism -- in choosing Bethel, I made a cognitive compromise. I told God that I would go, but as an Education major. I won’t describe the misery that accompanied my “compromise,” Needless to say, as I followed His hand, I was directed where He wanted me.
During the first full week of school, I made a special effort to know all of the people (i.e. girls) that could help me gratify my fleshly desires and soothe my insecurities. I became a favorite of the older female RAs, which gave me credence when I became interested in one of the girls on their floor. It was one of these RAs that invited me over to Shupe Hall for an evening prayer meeting.
My roommate went with me, and we entered the lounge expecting a mixed bag of motivations; a co-ed prayer meeting in a female dormitory will bring all sorts of guys out of the woodwork. God showed up instead. During our casual prayer, one spirit-led student felt it necessary to pray around the building and claim His territory. We did a “Jericho march” around Shupe while singing songs of praise. Gradually, more students began to join us -- the initial prayer group of fifteen grew to about fifty.
After deciding to do the same around the freshman guys dorm, we ended up out front -- instead we were led into a time of confession. As a few of us began to confess lifelong struggles with sin, a repentant heart was shared by the entire group, and the Holy Spirit began manifesting His power. [Bear in mind, the Missionary Church is one of those “we recognize the gifts, because scripturally we kind of have to, but if we focus on the likelihood of their abuse, we won‘t have to deal with them“ sort of denominations.] That night, in the presence of God and His people, I was filled with His Spirit and was claimed as His.
My initial struggle was understanding how identify with the world I had associated with for so long. Like Isaiah in chapter 6, I had seen the holiness of my God, and could do nothing else but give Him my life. Why He chose me in that place, at that time, I’m unsure. I must trust that He intimately understood the details of my call. But as He began to speak to me, giving me the ability to discern between that which is good and evil, I resisted this burden.
I looked around and saw my fellow Christians continuing to live their lives the way that I had before. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get back to that place: to laugh, to indulge in entertainment, to crack jokes that would make me accepted and the center of attention. It was if my personality had been changed overnight. And yet, because I saw my former life around me, I felt as if I was all alone in the transformation.
Over the next four years, it gradually grew “worse.“ People continued to ask what was wrong. They wondered about my mood swings: how could I go from old Anthony one minute into contemplative, burdened Anthony the next? I attempted to reason it out through counseling. But I could not erase from my mind or spirit that which I had seen and heard from the Lord. It was this holy discontent that led me to search for an explanation -- if being aware of the truth only made me miserable, why would He give me this “gift“?
I know that I have chosen the proverbial “road less traveled,” but how could I not? To believe that the only thing separating a believer from an unbeliever is the verbal terms of a prayer -- this is misconceived at best, and heresy at its worst. Grace is much more than God’s willingness to “look past” my sin. Grace is God’s deep and mysterious love provoking Him to resist serving the wages that I deserve -- and I deserve to die!
I didn't always understand my faith in this way. From the point of recognition and “the prayer of salvation” in 1992, I assumed that I was saved, and I wasn't too concerned with how I lived from that point forward. But scripture reveals to me that salvation is an ongoing action: that we are being perfected into the image of our Maker. I soon realized, I could not reflect the image of a God that I did not know.
I made a late decision to attend Bethel College in the fall of 1997. I was hardly a beacon of light for the Kingdom, but something (His Spirit) was calling me forth. I previously had every intention of attending a state school for journalism -- in choosing Bethel, I made a cognitive compromise. I told God that I would go, but as an Education major. I won’t describe the misery that accompanied my “compromise,” Needless to say, as I followed His hand, I was directed where He wanted me.
During the first full week of school, I made a special effort to know all of the people (i.e. girls) that could help me gratify my fleshly desires and soothe my insecurities. I became a favorite of the older female RAs, which gave me credence when I became interested in one of the girls on their floor. It was one of these RAs that invited me over to Shupe Hall for an evening prayer meeting.
My roommate went with me, and we entered the lounge expecting a mixed bag of motivations; a co-ed prayer meeting in a female dormitory will bring all sorts of guys out of the woodwork. God showed up instead. During our casual prayer, one spirit-led student felt it necessary to pray around the building and claim His territory. We did a “Jericho march” around Shupe while singing songs of praise. Gradually, more students began to join us -- the initial prayer group of fifteen grew to about fifty.
After deciding to do the same around the freshman guys dorm, we ended up out front -- instead we were led into a time of confession. As a few of us began to confess lifelong struggles with sin, a repentant heart was shared by the entire group, and the Holy Spirit began manifesting His power. [Bear in mind, the Missionary Church is one of those “we recognize the gifts, because scripturally we kind of have to, but if we focus on the likelihood of their abuse, we won‘t have to deal with them“ sort of denominations.] That night, in the presence of God and His people, I was filled with His Spirit and was claimed as His.
My initial struggle was understanding how identify with the world I had associated with for so long. Like Isaiah in chapter 6, I had seen the holiness of my God, and could do nothing else but give Him my life. Why He chose me in that place, at that time, I’m unsure. I must trust that He intimately understood the details of my call. But as He began to speak to me, giving me the ability to discern between that which is good and evil, I resisted this burden.
I looked around and saw my fellow Christians continuing to live their lives the way that I had before. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get back to that place: to laugh, to indulge in entertainment, to crack jokes that would make me accepted and the center of attention. It was if my personality had been changed overnight. And yet, because I saw my former life around me, I felt as if I was all alone in the transformation.
Over the next four years, it gradually grew “worse.“ People continued to ask what was wrong. They wondered about my mood swings: how could I go from old Anthony one minute into contemplative, burdened Anthony the next? I attempted to reason it out through counseling. But I could not erase from my mind or spirit that which I had seen and heard from the Lord. It was this holy discontent that led me to search for an explanation -- if being aware of the truth only made me miserable, why would He give me this “gift“?
Friday, September 30, 2011
#10 - Friday, June 12, 1992
For some of us, the process of growing up is gradual. As circumstances shift, these individuals float from moment to moment, having little reason to contemplate what changed between Point A and Point B.
As for me, my spurts are drastic, erratic, and awkward.
Three days before, I had never ridden a roller coaster, had never been to "The Cell," had never crushed on a girl, and had never been to a real beach. As our tour camp traveled through Chicagoland, we stopped at Great America, and I lost my voice riding the Batman. I attended a White Sox game and innocently went to the concession area to buy a hat. When I returned, the hat marking my seat was being worn by an unfamiliar girl.
At the end of the week, my 4'7", 80 pound self was walking along the Lake Michigan shore with three friends and four girls from our neighboring school: eight thirteen-year-olds without a care in the world. The sun and sand were blazing, and I remember being surprised by the crispness of the water. We played cards atop a large dune we had climbed, before barrel-rolling over a hundred feet to the lakefront.
At the specified time, we gathered in a picnic area for our chapel service. Being the last chapel of the week, it wasn't uncommon for the camp director to present a message on repentance and salvation. Today, I understand that this is the way a ministry "counts" its success, but I also recognize that the Spirit will use whatever means necessary to speak to His children. Our director began by reciting this familiar passage:
Returning home, I was left to myself as my brother trained for football. Indiana had a wonderfully cool summer that year. I woke up early each morning, riding my bike across the road towards the lake, enjoying the quietness of the outdoors. A few of my younger neighbors spent time with me as well, looking up to my “life experience” like little brothers. Looking back today, it's kind of funny to consider: I had never spent time with younger kids. Having been the youngest kid on the block for years, I relished my first summer without my brother's peers.
Many seasons passed before God revealed the lingering decision -- the call to die was the elephant in the room. During my time of waiting, God showed me what the world had to offer, how unsatisfying it was, and how He would redeem me from my blindness.
As for me, my spurts are drastic, erratic, and awkward.
Three days before, I had never ridden a roller coaster, had never been to "The Cell," had never crushed on a girl, and had never been to a real beach. As our tour camp traveled through Chicagoland, we stopped at Great America, and I lost my voice riding the Batman. I attended a White Sox game and innocently went to the concession area to buy a hat. When I returned, the hat marking my seat was being worn by an unfamiliar girl.
At the end of the week, my 4'7", 80 pound self was walking along the Lake Michigan shore with three friends and four girls from our neighboring school: eight thirteen-year-olds without a care in the world. The sun and sand were blazing, and I remember being surprised by the crispness of the water. We played cards atop a large dune we had climbed, before barrel-rolling over a hundred feet to the lakefront.
At the specified time, we gathered in a picnic area for our chapel service. Being the last chapel of the week, it wasn't uncommon for the camp director to present a message on repentance and salvation. Today, I understand that this is the way a ministry "counts" its success, but I also recognize that the Spirit will use whatever means necessary to speak to His children. Our director began by reciting this familiar passage:
I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm -- neither hot nor cold -- I am about to spit you out of my mouth. You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.’ But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind, and naked. I counsel you to buy from me the gold refined in the fire, so you can become rich; and white clothes to wear, so that you can cover your shameful nakedness; and salve to put on your eyes, so you can see. (Revelation 3:15-18)As a kid growing up in the church, I took the first hard look at myself, and I didn’t like the reflection. My mouth continually spewed obscenities and hatred -- my actions spoke little of my claim to Christianity. I knew that I couldn’t reconcile the two lifestyles. My sin drove a wedge between myself and Christ, and I had to decide which life I would live.
Returning home, I was left to myself as my brother trained for football. Indiana had a wonderfully cool summer that year. I woke up early each morning, riding my bike across the road towards the lake, enjoying the quietness of the outdoors. A few of my younger neighbors spent time with me as well, looking up to my “life experience” like little brothers. Looking back today, it's kind of funny to consider: I had never spent time with younger kids. Having been the youngest kid on the block for years, I relished my first summer without my brother's peers.
Many seasons passed before God revealed the lingering decision -- the call to die was the elephant in the room. During my time of waiting, God showed me what the world had to offer, how unsatisfying it was, and how He would redeem me from my blindness.
ten days
As another year nears its finish, I figured I would take the opportunity to recall the places in which God has led me: through faith, friendship, romance, and heartache. Beginning this evening, I will be sharing the ten most memorable days of my life -- in chronological order -- from my awkward adolescence to the present day. Ideally, this will offer the online community a context for the man I've become and the words that I write. If not, I hope you enjoy the stories :)
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