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"The waters fall.  The wind blows.  The sky rumbles, lightning strikes.  But the refuge is calm.  The storm surrounds but doesn't breach the barrier.  Its presence is know but it can't touch the sheltered.  If You are big enough to move mountains, You are big enough to keep me safe, to protect, to hold, to change.  I'm drowning and I need You to rescue me.  Asking for rescue seems a more accurate analogy than running to You for shelter.  I'm helpless... too weary to run to You.  I need You to run to me.  I've struggled long enough on my own, and it's been nothing but failure.  I'm going under again."

I've been  pondering the idea of God as Rescuer versus God being Refuge.  Neither eliminates the storm or the danger.  Both require waiting for it to pass or for help to arrive.  To call God our Rescuer or our refuge is not to ask Him to still the wind and the waves-- although we would love for that to happen.  The Rescuer endangers His own life for the sake of the one in peril.  The goal is not to eliminate the danger, but to move the victim to safety.  I'm glad my Savior is both.  I need Him to be both.

In this world you will have trouble, but take heart.  [He has] overcome the world.

#4 Winter Retreat 2009
This defining moment requires some back story.

I had lost my mojo years prior when a middle school student asked if I was the mother of a 19 year old guy.  I was 33 at the time.  If I was viewed in the genre of "parent" by students, what credibility could I possibly have in youth ministry?  I mean I'd heard them complain about adults for years, so I knew what it meant if their suspicions were that I was a parent... even more so the parent of a college student.

I was willing to try again with some Colorado middle schoolers 4 years later, so I chaperoned what I now consider the worst retreat ever.  I couldn't be relational and fun because I was too busy being a Gestapo.  I had to stop 8th graders from making inappropriate videos and sexting, explained why it was not okay to use someone else's mattress to surf down concrete stairs, and slept in front of the door to prevent the planned sneak out.  I was getting too old for this.

A month or so later I got a FB message asking me to speak at the Winter Retreat for the high school group with which I had previously worked.  Their original speaker had backed out and they were in a pinch.  I agreed and immediately began to wonder what I would talk about.  Then I got nervous.  I was out of practice.  I hadn't spoken to high schoolers in years... not since the mojo left.  And I was now in the "parent" genre.  I'd lost the automatic cool factor that accompanies people in their twenties.

I continued to struggle with what I would say right up until the week before the event.  I skipped a community group meeting to wrestle through the last talk.  I'd spent the weeks before praying for wisdom about what to teach and how to present it.  But the last talk of the three just wasn't coming together like I'd hoped.  I prayed and wrestled and brainstormed and then I had it.  It was simple.  It had the potential to be a re-run for the students.  But it was the plan and I had a peace about it.... until I got up to Winter Park.

I was sick, barely had a voice the week of the Retreat.  It was bad enough that I packed Thera-flu and a bag of cough drops.  Introducing myself was difficult, singing impossible, and speaking a challenge.  Add to that a new phenomenon:  I was nervous.  I hadn't been nervous to talk to high schoolers in years.  But after all the prayer and struggle with the topic, I was still unsure about it.  The weight of being God's messenger was especially heavy, as was the insecurity about how I would be received by the students.  (Teenagers don't know this, but sometimes they intimidate adults.  It's dumb, but it happens.)

Night one: 
I sat with the student ministries secretary and learned names, cautiously observing before entering "their" turf.  They'd just finished their long bus ride and most were sleep deprived.  So the "lesson" consisted of a series of youtube videos depicting the way some people see Jesus.  We laughed, critiqued, discussed in small groups, read the passage in which Jesus asks His disciples "Who do you say that I am?" and adjourned.  Nobody threw rotten tomatoes or rolled their eyes. Sometime during the evening my hands had stopped shaking.  So far, so good.

Night two:
We talked about John the Baptist, who went from declaring Jesus "the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world" to questioning whether or not He was actually the Messiah.  John's faith seemed contingent on circumstances.  So I asked the question, "Who do you say Jesus is, not just in the good times, but in the hard times, too?"  That evening on the tubing hill a student approached me and said, "Good talk tonight.  Convicting."  It began our conversation about her temptations and doubt.  I was encouraged by both her honesty and her willingness to approach me.  I prayed with her and for her and went to bed with a contented smile on my face.

Night three:
With the exception of the previous night's conversation, most of my interaction with students had been on the surface level in the cabin, on the slopes, or while "checking" them during broomball.  We could joke and smile and chat, but only one conversation had gone much below the surface.  And I was okay with that.  I had no idea what was about to transpire.  Night three was the night I was nervous about.  I'd spent time alone in the cabin rehashing it, second guessing it, and finally seeing no way around it.  I'd prayed. This was God's answer. I had to trust that.  So I cut cardboard (well, someone else cut cardboard on my behalf), made a playlist, found some volunteers to set the example, and prayed some more.

If you've never seen cardboard testimonies, do a youtube search and be encouraged.  After a brief discussion about how people who encountered Jesus were changed (i.e. Peter and Paul specifically), I challenged them to write their cardboard testimonies and describe how Jesus had changed them.  So some of them did.  And it was pretty cool.  Somehow along the way we transitioned into a time when students just ministered to each other.  I was long done talking.  Cardboard testimonies were complete.  And God just got hold of some people.  There were tears and then there were people loving and praying for the tears.  And it just kept going.  I said folks could leave if they wanted but nobody left.  I asked the people in tears if they wanted an "out"; nobody did.  They sat there letting God work on their hearts and their peers encourage and pray for them beyond the time for them to play broomball.  They didn't care.  They didn't budge.  I just sat and watched the Spirit do His thing, amazed that I got a front row seat to it all.

We finally disbanded and I was mingling with various tear-streaked faces.  One girl I asked more than once if she wanted to talk.  She declined each time.  The next thing I know she and another girl wanted to chat.  I invited an intern to join us, knowing I would be leaving later that night (or the next morning as it turned out).  The girls and I sat on a couch and the intern pulled up a chair.  That's where the story began.  She wanted a cardboard testimony too.  She had the first part down:  drug addict, but the other side was blank.  We talked for hours.  She shared her heart, her hurts, her tears, her fears, and her new faith with us.  She met Jesus that night and became a new creation.  God let me be there when she was "born again."

There were more conversations that night.  More hearts shared.  More prayers offered.  More ministry opportunities.  More relationships established.  I fell into bed at 1:30am exhausted in the best possible way.

Typically students that you meet for one weekend on a retreat will only stay in touch for a couple of weeks after the retreat.  I never want to believe that will happen, but it always does... well, did.... until this retreat.  The relationships intensified in this case.  I flew back to TX for a wedding in January and spent time with them.  I flew back in April and spent time with them.  For weeks on end there were three girls I heard from DAILY.  My Colorado friends knew that if I jumped up and left the room during game night, a TX student was on the phone.  They knew that if I threw my phone across the room, a TX student had been dumb.  It was obvious that the TX students had my heart.  So when the opportunity to move back to TX and go to grad school presented itself, the TX students definitely played a roll in the decision... and were some of the first people I wanted to tell.

I still reference that Winter Retreat.  I'm still thankful for it, amazed by it, humbled to have been a part of it.  It is one of only a handful of "tangible" God moments in my life.  I saw Him work.  Looking back, I know He wasn't just working on the students; He was working on me.  Love outweighs mojo AND cool.

So now I live in TX, within walking distance (a long walk, but still...) from the girl who met Jesus that weekend.  I spent Christmas with her family this year.  She has slept on my couch more than once.  There is snack food in my pantry simply because it's what she likes.  I have learned about unconditional love, gained a greater appreciation for parenthood, and watched God transform her.  Others I met that weekend have joined me at my apartment for movie nights or to work a puzzle or to eat breakfast for dinner.

I volunteer with that youth ministry now because leadership isn't dependent on a job or a title, and God's ability to use me (despite myself) in student ministry is not limited by my age.  "Mom" isn't the insult it used to be.

#6 Burnout
When you love what you do, you do it a lot.  Even if it's emotionally and spiritually draining.  When you care so much that you just can't let go, refuse to delegate, forget to care for yourself and don't rest, it will eventually catch up to you.  Once upon a time, I believed that burnout only happened to people who were in the wrong profession or who didn't care enough.  I know the opposite to be true because it happened to me.

As I sat in the therapist's office in tears, she put words to my overwhelmed emotions:  "You're upset because you are physically, spiritually, and emotionally unable to do what you most love to do right now, aren't you?"  I could only nod.

It had been a long time coming and therapy was only one of the stipulations given to me when I asked for a leave of absence.  Another stipulation meant that I would be forced to process this alone.  I went to the lake house belonging to a friend of a friend with a puzzle, a book or two, my journal, the bible, some Andrew Petersen CD's and a large container of Whoppers.  God and I would hack away at this until I was healed.  We had four weeks.

Because I had (practically) nobody to talk to but God, I started talking to Him out loud throughout the day's events.  We went on a walk, sat on the porch, rode the four wheeler, worked the puzzle, argued (well, that was one-sided, but...), and just sat quietly.  Imagine all the benefits of an imaginary friend but with the bonus factor of being real and divinely sovereign!!  It was the closest I ever felt to the Lord.  In my mind's eye we were sitting on the couch.  I'd put my head on His shoulder and He'd draw me close and just hold me there.  That is peace.  That is comfort.  That is love.  I still go back to that mental image when I feel like He's abandoned me, because He's promised to never leave us or forsake us.

#5 Watermark
The church preached community that fights for the best in each others' lives, that can be counted on in time of need, that would challenge and rebuke you when necessary and then walk beside you until you found your way again.  I longed for that kind of community. 

There were no secrets.  Our lives were open books into which the others could speak.  They prayed, played, served, encouraged, confessed, rebuked, and asked the hard questions with me.  They fought for God's best in my life and I did the same for them.  Together we learned what it meant to live out of the freedom of the gospel, the freedom of knowing that I CAN'T do it on my own and that grace doesn't just apply to the moment of salvation but to every day of my life.

#4 Winter Retreat 2009
(This one will probably be long enough to require a post of its own, so for my readers with a short attention span, I'll stop here.)

Okay Jesus,
I'm just gonna say it, since You already know I'm thinking it.  This sucks.  The situation.  The timing.  The weight of it all.  A crisis per month for three months now in one youth group is a bit excessive from my perspective.  I mean, I know You told us we'd have trouble in this world, but this is a lot for one group of teenagers and their parents, ministers and volunteers to handle.  We know You've overcome the world, but we're just plain tired.

So I'm gonna choose to trust that You are good.  I know You know where Mrs. Burmaster is and HOW she is and why she's there.  In Your parables You talked about finding lost sheep and lost coins and lost sons.  Would You please help this lost mom be found and be safe?  Give peace to her family while they wait for a phone call.  Be her refuge and her rescuer, their comforter and guide.

If we've ever needed You, Lord it's now.  We're scared.  We feel helpless.  We're emotionally drained.  Be our Shepherd, our strength.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
We found her.  Thank You! :)

I'm gonna mix sports metaphors.  Proceed with caution.

Last night I went to bed (not so much to sleep) feeling like I'd struck out.  Three fast balls.  Three complete whiffs.  After a cloud nine week, it had become a McDonald's weekend. (That's youth ministry lingo for going from really good to crappy.)  I wondered why I continued to find myself in and pursue youth ministry when I keep blowing it so bad.  I tossed and turned and wondered what difference it made.

Today was like football's version of the "official review" in the replay booth.  Turns out it wasn't three strikes after all.  It was a hit (the metaphor fails, but just go with it), a checked swing, and a foul ball.  The hit involved a student doing what I'd very firmly (forcefully) told her to do despite her multiple arguments against it.  She did it, was pleasantly surprised, and saw God's fingerprints all over the situation. 

The checked swing could have been ugly.  A potential trust breech was avoided because level heads and honesty prevailed.  I wasn't sure that would be the case, but texts first thing in the morning provided much relief. 

The foul ball was miscommunication that was the direct result of a lack of communication.  It's been hashed out now, but the past cannot be erased... only learned from.

A new day's perspective moved me from an out to a runner on first and a 1-1 count.  That's progress.  I'll take it.

Banging your head on the keyboard just isn't the same as punching a wall, but my deductible is too high and income too low to deal with a broken hand.  Gonna be late to church tomorrow.  I already know it.

Sometimes I don't like me.  This weekend has surpassed its quota of those times.

I prefer the lake to be "glass".  You know, the early morning mirror look that can only happen when there is not even a breath of air to create the tiniest ripples on the surface of the water.  I'm a waterskier, so it make sense I would prefer the water smooth.  I want to the be the one to make the ripples, to disturb the peace, to slice through the surface, and I'd just as soon the wind not interfere.  My adrenaline wants to surge just thinking about it.

It's still winter, but the sun made a glorious appearance in a bright blue sky today.  The warmth of a Saturday afternoon drew me to the lake.  The same south wind that brought a warm day blew the water into a frenzy.  The whitecaps pounding the shore rivaled the beach at low tide.  Even if it had been warm enough to ski and I had access to a boat, I wouldn't have attempted it today.  Water like that is a beating on a ski.  It's only pretty to watch from a distance.  I'm a smooth water snob.

The same holds true of my life.  I prefer to not deal with wind and waves.  They hurt. They knock me down.  They're a beating.

The smoothest bodies of water on the planet rarely look like water.  Stagnant surfaces collect and grow a variety of scum that wouldn't be there if the surface were to be stirred every so often.  That's not exactly the fruit I want to produce with my life.

Interesting to note in John 5 that healing occurred when the waters of the pool of Bethesda were stirred, not when they were calm.

The waves can be beneficial.  I've always wanted to learn to surf.

#9 Wedgwood Baptist Church Shooting
It was a typical Wednesday night youth group event.  An intern was leading games, students were exerting the energy they'd had to keep pent up all day at school, some people were trickling in late... It was Christian teen merriment all around.  When Anna walked in crying, it was an anomaly to the environment into which she stepped.  I asked what was wrong, never expecting to hear what she proceeded to tell me.  "There are helicopters flying all around my house.  A gunman opened fire at Wedgwood at the youth rally and I don't know if my friends are okay."

Our youth group had been invited to that rally but had opted out.  We told our students about it but scheduled our regular Wednesday night event.  We weren't sure which, if any, of our students were there. 

I spent the evening hugging students and watching the news reports.  Snippets of what the reporters said would catch my attention as I examined every square inch of footage looking for students I knew.  bodies... bomb... gunman... worship... injured... bullets... sanctuary

There was no preparation for this type of situation in seminary.  Nobody told me what to say to students when I could no longer tell them church was a safe place.  Armed security guards became the norm at youth events.  The student I knew who watched her best friend die in a pool of her own blood didn't want to tell her parents about the nightmares she was having.  I couldn't imagine them being worse than what she'd already lived through.

I wasn't there, but it shook me to the core.  Even if I had been there with "my" students, I couldn't have protected them from the bullets, the trauma, or the nightmares.  No matter how much I love them, I can't always protect them.

#8 "You're discipling me"
This was the statement made by a friend in college who was only a couple of years younger than me.  I balked at first because it felt like the label put a hierarchy on the friendship.  It was my first realization that discipleship was a friendship of faith.  I had no idea then that my life would eventually be defined by such friendships.



#7 Nederland
I sat on a rock beside a mountain lake on a Saturday in August asking God what to do with my life.  Around the country 78 people were fasting and praying for me.  I was miserable in Colorado, hated my job, wasn't feeling connected to my church, and had no ministry outlet. I needed a word from God.  Should I look for another "secular" job or go back to ministry?  Should I stay in Colorado or move back to Texas?  If I stayed, where/how could I get connected with teenagers?

I journaled my prayers, listened to Chris Tomlin, and searched scripture for how God spoke to others.  The story of Elijah has long been one of my favorites (1 Kings 19).  I read it again to remind myself of the truth that God sometimes speaks in a whisper, unaware that a single phrase would leap from the page.  I'd read it countless times, but this time it held new meaning, deeper meaning.  "Go back the way you came."

In the context of teaching a lesson on Esther, my friend and brother in Christ asked this question:  "What are the top three defining moments in your life?"  Follow-up questions included:  What events have shaped you into the person you are today... even if they didn't seem to be a big deal at the time? 

I had a difficult time narrowing it down to three and an even harder time ranking them.  But I've come up with a top 10 list and will begin the countdown today and work through through them gradually.  A couple of disclaimers:  some of these stories have been told repeatedly throughout this blog.  My apologies for the re-run factor.  But if it's defining, it's gonna come up in conversation.  The other disclaimer is this:  Christ changed my life and continues to change my life.  That's a given so it's not on the list of defining moments.  He uses the other moments to draw me to himself or to teach me something.  That said, let the countdown begin...


# 10-- Mrs. Sanderson's class
I still remember one of the questions I missed when I was being tested for the gifted/talented program in elementary school.  Who discovered America?  I paused as long as I could and still couldn't come up with the answer.  The educational psychologist even gave me a hint "In the year 1492,..."  It would've been a great hint if I'd ever heard that little jingle.  But I hadn't.  So I made the best educated guess a third grader could give, "The pilgrims".

I'm not sure how what the scoring system was, but my test score was just shy of what was necessary to qualify as G/T.  The teacher put me in her class anyway, arguing that test scores don't tell the whole story.  Mrs. Sanderson was cool like that.  But she meant business in the classroom.

The classroom was a 4th/5th grade class combined so I had her for two years.  Up until that point in my life, I was hide-behind-my-mama's-skirt shy.  This class changed that by forcing me to lead peers and younger students through learning experiences 4 different times each week.  Other weekly assignments in Mrs. Sanderson's class included a weekly creative writing assignment, weekly math drills, weekly vocabulary tests, and a weekly radio show.  I gave my first formal research presentation in fourth grade.  (I yawned through the whole thing.)  She taught us calligraphy, dental hygiene, how to write, how to create, how to teach, how to write a research paper, and how to floss our teeth.  She raised the bar higher than any teacher I've had since... so high that my mom called her at one point to make sure it wasn't too high.  Mrs. Sanderson told her it was within my ability to meet the expectations if my parents were supportive.  They were and I did.  We learned that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.  (She taught us that by marching us back to the barrack if we were too loud on our way to the cafeteria.)  She played along with my pretend wedding--even though it was scheduled for recess time.  And to this day, I get a Christmas card from her each year.

Without my experiences in her class, I don't think I would have the confidence to write anything, I wouldn't value education like I do, and I would still be shy.  She took a chance on me, and I'm grateful.