"B" is for Balance

It is the beautiful time of the seminary year in which final grades have been posted, but the syllabus for my J-term class has not. I officially have nothing to be reading for school... no papers to write, no theological reflecting to be doing. I must admit that I could really get used to this.

Another thing that this time of the year brings is the inevitable facebook status updates that people make as professors post the students' grades to the student portal. As I was reading through (a.k.a. being a creeper) my facebook news feed, one specific status update caught my eye. My friend posted the following...

Hmmmm... one D+, two Cs, and an F... a 1.325 average ..... maybe this place isn't for me....

Immediately upon reading, I was concerned. I know that this friend is an intelligent (and might I add well dressed... friend, you can pay me later for that one) and not one that should be receiving that type of grades. My husband, who is also a friend of this person on facebook (real life, too, just in case you were wondering...), sent me a text message regarding said status message, inquiring to its authenticity. I did the only sensible thing. I sent my friend a BBM (blackberry message) to find out. This is how the conversation played out. I have taken a bit of liberty with the conversation.

Me: Was that your real GPA?

Friend: No, just sick of people bragging.

Me: You and me both. I was just so worried!

Friend: Thank you.

Me: And between you and me, I work hard not to let anyone make me feel like crap about my 3.1 average... but it takes a lot

Friend: You shouldn't. Guess what? People who get 3.1 are pastors. B's get degrees.

Wow... I bet this friend had NO IDEA how much I needed this conversation. I have always been the kind of person who was hesitant to share my grades. In high school, I usually got higher grades than people, so I didn't want to share them for fear of making someone else feel bad. In college, I found that my high school education was perhaps not quite as challenging as those of some of my peers, and that my lackadaisical attitude toward school was going to prove a stumbling block to me. I had to learn how to study (which I still am not sure I know how to do), and my grades were not as good as those of my friends. This is not to say that my grades were bad, but I have always considered myself blessed to be surrounded by such intelligent human beings, and my college friends were certainly no exception to that. As they were flourishing in academia, I was working four time as hard to merely keep my head above water.

Then at graduation, something interesting happened. I had never really cared that my grades were not as flawless as my friends, but as I walked into the gymnasium to take my place in the line of graduates, many were wearing chords. These chords were bright orange against their black robes, so they were not to be missed. I realized as I flipped through the graduation program that the chords were to signify those who had graduated "with high honors" or "with honors." I did not have either of those chords. I was proud of my GPA and the fact that it had earned me a scholarship to continue my education at the graduate level, but I had never thought of the sinking feeling in my stomach I would feel as I posed for pictures with my friends who were chorded while I was looking stunning in my plain black robe (may I just add, however, that I had the best shoes... a rocking pair of pointy, pink, glittery pumps). If you wonder why acceptance from peers is such a big deal to me, read my previous post. I am working on it...

I imagine that my mother would have told me that the chords didn't matter, and she would have been right. After that day I could not have cared less who had a chord and who didn't...

But then I came to seminary.

Seminary is, I imagine, like many other graduate programs where people usually inquire about academic situations. "How do you think you did on that test?" Or, in the case of seminary, "How do you think that sermon turned out?" or, "man, I really think I aced that Hebrew exam!" Now, I truly believe that 99% of the people who engage in the practice of grade inquiring do not do so to put anyone down or to lift themselves up, but there are those few people that I have encountered who make me feel like they just HAD to tell me that they got an A on their final or a glowing evaluation to make me remember that I didn't. And I know that I should not let my hard work be diminished by comparing it to the work of others, but it happens!

But from here on out, I will keep in mind the words of my friend... "People who get 3.1 are pastors." Yeah! I am a pastor. Sometimes I have to tell myself again and again that sitting in the room at the nursing home may sometimes be more important than doing the supplemental readings for class. Sometimes a funeral may pop up the week of a presentation, and the presentation has to take the back seat.

Now, I understand that there are a few students out there who manage to balance 2+ jobs plus families and other responsibilities and manage to pull off a 4.0 (I know this because I am friends with a few of them), but I have become more comfortable in knowing that I am not that kind of person. If I allow myself to dwell on my grades, I will not be able to maintain the relationships necessary for keeping my family and my ministry healthy.

So I have learned in seminary that, for me, "B" stands for balance. And a balanced "B" is a grade that I will humbly accept any semester.

wow, a semester really will fly... I cannot believe I have neglected my poor blog for this long...

I have had a really difficult time in seminary this semester, and I am just realizing it now that the semester is over (thank GOD). This semester has been full of more reading and writing than I could have ever imagined, plus the added stress of having my first church appointment. Writing an additional 8-10 page paper every week in the form of a sermon seemed to be one of the easiest parts of my weeks as they blew past me. The hardest part of it all was the fact that I have felt a huge disconnect in the social sector...

Now, in my life I have never had a shortage of friends. I thrive in social settings with people, but the more I reflect on my time in high school and college the more I realize that I function best in a circle of friends as the person who understands that she isn't quite at the same social level as everyone else, but is funny enough to make up the difference. Now, hear me out before you try to tell me otherwise...

- I dated some low quality people. That is NOT to say that every guy I dated was a loser, because they weren't, but lots of times I found myself in relationships just for the sake of having a boyfriend...

- I found the groups that I fit well in and worked to be in formal leadership positions to secure my friendships. For example, I didn't do well playing volleyball, found myself sitting the bench more often than I had ever dreamed, and I quit (man... that was hard... I have always justified the quitting with a shoulder injury... real injury, bad excuse...). In band, however, I did well and ended up field commander. The same goes for musicals. I was never the star, but had roles just bigger than average...

- In college, I found myself being the funny girl... I literally can't count how many times guys confided in me that they were in love with my roommate or that they thought my friend was great looking. And the one time a guy was really head over heels for me, I really couldn't (and sometimes still can't) get over the fact that the girl he was with before me was much prettier. I banked on my humor to get me through, which served me pretty well.

... and those are just a few of the many examples that I can think of. Now I don't want to be pitied or told that I'm wrong, because I am just reflecting on my own experiences. But this semester, something really interesting happened... When I did not have the time or the energy to get by with my humor, I found myself struggling to invest in significant social relationships. I see other people attending social events that I didn't get invited to, or people making plans that don't involve me. This is mostly my own fault...

but the greatest thing is that I have learned how I measure myself. I have always considered myself an extrovert, and I truly believe that I am, but I have spent so much time telling myself that drawing energy from being around people and banking on always being around people are very different things...

I am still reflecting on what it means in my life and relationships, but what I do know is that I am blessed to be where I am surrounded by the people I am, and I need to not be caught up in my identity in relation to others, but in relation to God and God's calling upon my life.

The Most Beautiful Thing I've Read Today

My friend, Julia, had posted something striking when researching for class, and I must admit that I had a similar experience this evening. I consider it a blessing to enjoy this project so much. As I read each word of the biography of Anna Howard Shaw, I learn to appreciate her in a new way, feeling as though she is a friend of mine, which is exactly what Dr. Lobody intended (or at least what I think she intended) with this project. After Anna (because I honestly feel that we're on a first name basis) has struggled on her path to become educated she moved and saw her first woman preacher. Here is what she writes. Her words moved me to tears... "Her sermon was delivered on a Sunday morning, and I was, I think, almost the earliest arrival of the great congregation which filled the church. It was a wonderful moment when I saw my first woman minister enter her pulpit; and as I listened to her sermon, thrilled to the soul, all my early aspirations to become a minister myself stirred in my with cumulative force. After the services I hung for a time on the fringe of the group that surrounded her, and at last, when she was alone and about to leave, I found courage to introduce myself and pour forth the tale of my ambition. Her advice was as prompt as if she had studied my problem for years. 'My child,' she said, 'give up your foolish idea of learning a trade and go to school...'" Beautiful. Powerful. Moving.

Appreciate Your Pastor

You can't ever win with sermons. Well, ok, maybe sometimes you can, but today was certainly not one of those times for me. Let me preface this by saying that the month of October is my least favorite month of the year because of some immense personal and community loss I experienced during this month. No matter how hard I try to enjoy it (and I do try, believe me), it always turns out to be more hard than I thought it would be. This month is no different.

All that being said, my genius, novice pastor self decided to preach on the Job lectionary text this week, the Sunday before my infamous "dead-mom" anniversary (sorry if it sounds insensitive... it is how I cope). The sermon I was going to preach was no doubt going to be difficult for me to preach on a very personal level, but I decided that I was going to preach it anyway. Now, I am typically a manuscript preacher, but on this occasion I stuck a little bit more closely to the manuscript than I normally do, fearing that if I strayed, I would make myself cry like a 13 year old girl after her first heartbreak.

One member of my congregation loves to tell me his reaction to the sermon. Even when theological criticism, I generally really enjoy the conversation. As he approached me after the service, I was kind of excited to hear what he had to say. He very plainly told me that he would be offering me constructive criticism and proceeded to tell me that I had great oratory, but a very poor sermon. He then said that the way you put babies/children to sleep is by reading to them, and I did that to my congregation today. I told him that, unfortunately, that is one of the pitfalls of being a student pastor... I don't always get the time to do more than simply prepare my sermon, let alone memorize it or try to deliver it from an outline. Sometimes it is just not feasible.

I continued with the cordial handshakes of parishioners. Each time I thought about this man's comment, tears would well up in my eyes. Not wanting to cry in front of people over sermon criticism, I retreated to my office. After gathering myself, I started packing up my things to head home for the afternoon and was greeted by a string of three people who told me that they really enjoyed my "different" approach to Job, stating that the sermon was just what their wounded hearts needed to hear that day. I was truly touched.

... but as I drove home, the uplifting comments were drowned out by the replaying of the comments of the one man who had told me that my sermon was not very good. He had no idea that I needed to stick to my manuscript for personal reasons, nor did I care to tell him. And no matter how much I told myself that his comments should not bear much weight, they did.

This situation just reminds me of a blog post that my friend, Michele, wrote about how preaching is like making visual art. Preachers put so much solitary time, energy, effort, pray, personality, and emotion into a sermon that when we deliver it, instead of feeling relieved, we (and by "we" I really mean "I") feel exhausted and sometimes a bit paranoid that people did not hear the sermon the way we meant them to. I felt that this person had so horribly misunderstood my sermon that all I wanted to do was go home and curl up and never preach again.

And yet I know that God used my words to touch the hearts of listeners, and I have to remind myself that constructive criticism at least means that someone listened...

What a great first Pastor Appreciation Day...

Lily Pads

My favorite author wrote in my favorite book about lily pads. She writes that our journey in life is just like jumping from lily pad to lily pad, from one safe place to another.

I have really felt that way lately. Just when I get settled on one lily pad, something else falls into the water, causing just enough of a ripple that causes me to jump. Sometimes that jump is welcomed. That is the jump that comes off of a nice, strong, green, lily pad. I am ready for this jump. The lily pad provides a steady base that I can spring off of, reaching another lily pad that will hold my weight. This is like when I graduated college, ready to get married and start seminary, knowing that what I was leaving would always provide a strong foundation, but more importantly a strong sounding board. I would leave that place, never coming back to it, but always remembering how long it had held me up.

But then there are those lily pads that sink when you hit them. Maybe they hold you up for a while, but as you grow heavy and settle into your life on that lily pad, it sinks under your weight. And as the water starts to creep in over the edges of the lily pad, you realize that you have to jump off, without seeing a lily pad in front of you, but knowing that the one you are on is not where you want to stay.

I have started to realize that life is just a series of lily pads... you will never settle in one safe place, but like Anne writes, you just have to move from safe place to safe place. And now I have to decide (luckily not by myself) weather I will stay or if I will jump. And I don't see any lily pad in front of me. I just have to figure out whether this lily pad is the strong, green one, or if the water is creeping up towards my feet.

I'm just a statistic

I have to admit that my small town upbringing has finally caught up with me. Not always remembering the necessity of locking doors was kind of instilled in me in good ole Upper Sandusky. Last week, after a meeting with my mentor, I left my wallet in my car and walked into the house. It wasn't until the next morning that I realized that I couldn't find my wallet. I sat down in my car first and saw that my prescription sunglasses were laying in their case on the seat. This may not seem unusual to most people, but I don't wear them very often, and if I do, I don't put them back in their case until someone rides with me and I need to put them away. As I turned on the car, the gas light came on. Reaching down into the place I normally shove my wallet, I didn't find it. That's not a big deal. It is probably in the back seat. I turned off my car and looked in the back seat. Not there. So perhaps it has fallen on the floor and wedged itself under the seat. Still not there. At this point I call Garrett, freak out, tear the house apart, root through bags and purses, realize how late I am and leave anyway.

As I am driving to church on my gaslight with no cash or plastic to buy gas, and no ID to show if I write a check, I call every place I was the day before, the people I was with, etc. to see if anyone could be of any help. No luck. I get back from church, exhaust myself looking for it, and wait for Garrett to get home. When he arrives, we both scan every inch of the house, turning over furniture and all, looking for my wallet. Not finding it by the time of our dinner date, we leave, and on the ay I call in all of my cards lost/stolen and call in for new insurance cards. Thankfully, I have my passport, so Saturday morning when I go to get a new driver license (on the card it does NOT say "driver's license," just FYI) it was not as much of a hassle as I thought it would be. The whole time I have written my wallet off as "lost" because I don't want to say that it is stolen, find it a few days later, and then be embarrased.

Fast forward to today. As I am leaving my morning class, I check my phone and see that I have a voicemail from a Delaware number that I didn't recognize. I listen to the voicemail, and it is a beautiful voice on the phone saying that she has a few of my credit cards. Her husband was walking their dog through the park that is two houses down from my house and after his dog (Copper, I later learned) had done his "business," the gentleman decided to be a good citizen of Delaware and pick up the poop. While disposing of said poop in the trash can, he saw credit cards, a few business cards, and reciepts strewn about in the can. He (again the responsible citizen) decided to retrieve all of this information, and give me a call. I was quite shocked when his wife called, and I went over to her house to pick up what was left of my wallet. She was a kind woman, with a kind husband (who I didn't meet, but assume he is great because he works as a foreign language professor... I haven't met very many mean language professors. Crazy? Yes. Mean? Not so much) who invited me in, returned my personal information with a promise that she didn't look through it, and gave me her apologies for how awful this has been for her.

So I returned home and filed a police report, not with the hopes of any resolution, but just so that the police were made aware of the situation in our quiet neighborhood. The police officer told me that he couldn't do much, and reminded me to keep better care of my personal information (thanks... like I really need reminded) and went on his way.

I guess I never understood how much people meant it when they say that a robbery or break in robbed them of more than their possesions; it robbed them of their security. This experience really has done that for me. I worry now about whether my garage is locked, and if I latched the windows shut. I wonder if the person who took my wallet just needed a bit of cash, or if they wanted to harm someone. Will they just spend the money, or did they gather enough information to take more money from me from my checking and (meager) savings accounts? I wonder if they'll come back. I feel like my home has been violated.

I have always thought the best of people in all circumstances, but situations like this challenge that view. I also wonder how I am supposed to forgive someone when I don't know who they are or what intentions they had. If they needed a little bit of cash to get a prescription for their grandmother with no medical coverage, fine. Forgiveness granted. But if they needed beer for the party? How am I supposed to forgive that?

But that's what God calls us to... to forgive in all times, places, situations. We are supposed to forgive the drug addict who stole our wallet just like the person who needed a bit more money for something truly worthwhile. Forgive. Easier said than done.

It is like the news story about Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi who bombed a plane in the late 1980's. He has recently been freed from jail because he is thought to be terminally ill. Many of the family members of people killed in the bombing are upset that this killer is allowed to go free. One woman (a mother whose son was killed) said that she forgives him, but that doesn't mean that he should go free. Is that real forgiveness? Or is that saying we forgive someone and still needing that person to be punished so that we feel closure.

So here is the question I pose to you, readers...

Does true forgiviness always bring about a sense of closure?

If there is one thing I’ve learned in my life, it is that what I always thought of as a mundane and normal upbringing was anything but that. In my 22 years, I have never heard of anyone who had an upbringing like mine. Sometimes I am frustrated by that, but more often I am thankful for my life experiences thus far, no matter how difficult they were or to deal with at the time.

It is often joked that the average American family has 2.5 children. My family really did have 2.5 children. I was the second born child; the first female. My brother and I often tease that mom and dad had children until they got what they wanted, and that was me. The other .5 came from the fact that there was always another child in our house. We often had a foster child, and most of the time that child was one of my cousins.

I feel that I must explain a bit about my mother’s upbringing in order for a person to understand my childhood. My mother, named Vanessa, was one of four children. She was born in 1955 in Grover Hill, Ohio to a family who lived in a two room home with no indoor plumbing. She often told us stories of her days in high school and her preparations for a romantic date. If she wanted a bath, she had to walk one half of a mile down the road to her grandfather’s house. Her family was beyond poor, and she always knew it. Her father (from what I’ve been told) was a very loving man, but his job in a factory was not enough to provide for their family. He spent most of his time at work, and therefore she did not see much of him. Her brothers, lacking a strong male figure, often beat her and her sister. Her mother simply looked the other way saying, “Boys will be boys.” None of her siblings graduated from high school, and the only reason she did was at the urging of her mentor, Adelphine, for whom she worked. It was because of Adelphine that my mother attended and graduated from the University of Findlay. It was Adelphine that reminded my mother that she was a beautiful, smart, and talented young woman. No other person told her these things growing up. Adelphine also instilled the importance of education in my mother’s life. Because of Adelphine, my mother took it upon herself to make every child she encountered know that he/she had potential and that someone loved him/her. This is how my cousins often came to live with us. When my aunt, her sister, failed to provide for her children, my mother graciously took them in while her sister got back on her feet.

Education was always the top priority in our home. I was always the youngest child in the house and took it upon myself to catch up to what the bigger kids were doing. When my brother (3 years older than me) learned to read, I learned too. If Bradley could do it, so could I. My brother learned because he had to. I learned because I wanted to. While many of our friends spent summers on exotic vacations and on cruises with their families, my family never took vacations. My mother viewed a leisurely vacation as a waste. Vacation in the Barrett household was a day at C.O.S.I. or a trip to the Ohio Historical Society. At the time, I felt robbed of the typical experiences of a family, but in retrospect I see that having a teacher for a mother was about more than having a mother who spent her days in a classroom with third graders. My mother’s job was to teach, and her most prized students were her biological children.

My father was one of ten children. His family could not afford to send him to college. If attending college was something he would like to do, he would have had to fund the experience on his own. He decided to work and keep his money rather than attend college and throw his money away. He spent most of my childhood working in a factory, and when the factory laid him off, he took up the profession of driving a semi-truck. I, like my mother, did not see much of my father, but I knew that he loved me. I would even go as far as to define myself as a daddy’s girl.

My parents loved one another. I only remember them fighting once in the entirety of my childhood. I did not know that parents existed who did not love each other. The parents of my friends all loved one another as well. Perhaps this was because I was raised in the church, or maybe it was just luck. Divorce was a distant word in my childhood mind. It was an abstract concept that only other children at school had to deal with. I thought my childhood was perfect.

My spiritual life was always fostered. Both of my parents were faithful Christians and I followed suit. Baptized as an infant, I was raised in the church, and often I felt as though the church was just as much a home to me as my house. My parents chose to raise my brother and me in the United Methodist Church. When I was confirmed at age 12, and I felt as though no other church could be home to me like the United Methodist Church was. I was one of the few 12 year olds in my confirmation class that took the vows of confirmation seriously. At confirmation, I was a proud member of the United Methodist Church. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I quickly fell into a leadership role in my church. I loved serving on the district and conference youth councils, and the highlight of my year was always the West Ohio Annual Conference.

I attended my district youth camp when I was in high school, and the first time I remember having my own theological thought was at this camp. The camp coordinator asked all the youth pastors to stand up and share the date on which they were “saved.” After all the youth pastors had shared, the coordinator stood up and said that if we didn’t know the exact date that we were “saved,” we were not truly saved. This was a problem for me, because I didn’t know an exact date. As far back as I remember, I had loved Jesus and considered myself a Christian, having been raised in the church. This man would not devalue my upbringing. I felt that this date was the date that I was called to ministry. I knew that it was my task to raise people up in the church like I had been, whether they were infants or elders.

Upon graduating high school, I was set to attend Ohio Northern University to major in education, just like my mother had at her college. I knew that I was called to work in a church, but at that point in my life I believed my calling to be a professional educator first and a pastor part-time. I attended one education class and knew immediately that I was not going to cut it as a teacher. I called home to tell my parents that I was switching majors, and the change was welcomed after a bit of conversation. I felt at home in my religious education classes. I knew that the tug to educate was meant to be in a church setting. I felt that I was making my family proud.

Later on in my freshman year of college my world began to fall apart. My mother, since my childhood, had suffered from a degenerative kidney disease. We always knew that at some point she would need a kidney transplant or be bound to a life of dialysis. Her sister felt like she owed my mother her life for taking care of her children, and so she offered to donate her kidney. We were all elated at the prospect of having the real Vanessa, my mom, back. In my high school years she had grown tired and lethargic, and we knew that after a transplant her body would heal itself and she would be the spunky woman that we had all known. The surgery date was set, and things went according to plan. The transplant team kept all of us gathered in the waiting room posted on the surgery. It was when we noticed that we hadn’t been updated by the surgical team that we first knew something was wrong. When the surgeon stepped into the waiting room, we knew that the news he was going to deliver was not news we wanted to hear. He began by telling us that both my mother and aunt were in recovery. We all breathed a sigh of relief, but he went on to tell us that the kidney lost its blood supply and had as a result died. My mother would still be sick, and my aunt was now one kidney short.

After my freshman year and the transplant ordeal, I decided to move to Connecticut for the summer to work. My family supported me, and I packed up my car and left. I experienced an extreme case of homesickness, and spent all of my free time on the phone with my mom. She told me that she was feeling more and more tired, and she felt like her body was shutting down. The blood that was not being cleaned by her dying kidneys was poisoning her earthly body. I knew it was serious, but she refused to let me quit my job and come home to be with her. She assured me that she would be waiting for me when I got home. I received a phone call at the end of my summer telling me that my brother had been found to be a match for her, and that a second transplant was being arranged.

I came home from Connecticut hopeful that this time it would be different. My mother said many times that she didn’t want to go through this surgery, but she went forward with planning at the urging of my father, my brother, and me. The day the surgery was scheduled, she spiked a fever and the surgery was postponed for a week. She joked that she would do anything to get out of this surgery. Finally, the surgery went on as scheduled. My father and I waited to hear word on how my brother and mother were doing. The surgeon stepped into the waiting room, beaming, and told us that the surgery had gone perfectly. Life seemed to be back on track. As soon as my mother was in recovery, I went to see her. She and I chatted and then she told me to go back to school so that I didn’t miss another day of class. I obliged, knowing how much my education meant to her. I kissed her goodbye and told her I loved her. That was the last time I would speak to her. She died from complications from the transplant a few days later.

I dealt with my mother’s death a bit differently than some. The day we buried her, I returned back to school and went to class. I attempted to deal with the situation by putting it out of my mind and returning back to life as usual. That worked for a while, but I always felt like half of me was missing. I always knew I was like a carbon copy of my mother, but having her presence gone from my life was a kind of emptiness I had never experienced. Often people would look at me and say, “You look just like your mother.” Each time I heard this, my heart broke a bit more. I saw sadness in the eyes of people as they spoke these words, and it hurt me to know that every time they looked at me, they were reminded of how much they missed my mother. I felt my family falling apart. My father, who had always had issues with depression, became removed and quiet, and my brother felt as though her death was his fault. Bradley became more hostile to the idea of God than he had been previously, which was hard for me to witness. I used my college as a refuge from the home life that went from perfect to destroyed in a matter of days.

I never really lost my faith in God through the whole process of grieving, although I did take plenty of time to question why a God who was so loving would let my heart experience so much pain. I became frustrated with everyone feeding me empty religious clichés, and I chose to seek a new friendship with someone outside of my circle of friends. This person’s name was Garrett. He was an acquaintance of mine from freshman year, and through a few conversations on the internet, I found that he was the only person who would just listen to me. Many nights I spent the evening sitting next to him in his dorm room crying. It was my opportunity to vent my frustrations of my newfound motherless life and have someone tell me it was OK to cry instead of urging me to stop crying and try to move on.

I was at a point in my life where I was grasping for any stability I could, and I found that in my faith. Though I spent a great deal of time questioning, it was easy for me to recognize that the questioning I was doing was necessary for my growth. Garrett took our newfound friendship and asked me (multiple times) if I wanted to take our friendship and turn it into something more, and (multiple times) I told him, “No.” I felt as if I needed to continue processing without a boyfriend adding an opinion, when really, his presence had calmed and reassured me in ways that I had not understood. One night I was heading to Garrett’s apartment when my roommate called me out on turning him down. It was then that I realized that I was foolish to turn this wonderful man down when I had been in an intimate emotional relationship with him for months. I walked into his apartment and told him that I would like to date him. The rest is history.

His proposal was perfect, but that is another story in itself. Garrett and I committed our lives to one another in June 2008. Since our friendship began, he has been my rock. He is the person that allows me to truly be myself. Spiritually, I needed him, and he is one of the few people I feel comfortable talking with about my spiritual doubts. I feel as if I have been a spiritual leader to so many that I cannot appear empty or questioning in front of them. Garrett is the person I turn to be filled up. He has been the person that took on the role of encourager for me when my mother died.

The most interesting thing in my mind is that Garrett never met my mother. While to some that may cause tension in a relationship, for us, it has been a blessing. While others that knew my mother may tire of hearing stories about her over and over again, Garrett takes those stories and uses each one to put another piece into the puzzle of who she was.

All of the long and drawn out story of the death of my mother and my relationship with Garrett has allowed me to understand that God works outside of the church. Before the death of my mother, faith was an activity that was lived out in church and at church functions. Faith was a happy activity that was never hard. I feel that now I have a faith that is life encompassing. My faith is now a faith that lives in my home and in my marriage and in my family (however broken).

With all of my life experiences, I am preparing myself for a future in a broken church and in a broken world. The value of my personal experiences has shown me that each person has a story in which God has had a hand in. The stories of two people are never exactly the same. Part of the wonder that the world holds for me is just that. God works individually in each life, and therefore, in each church. No two churches are alike. The future in store for me is full of wonder and excitement as I get to be a part of many churches in which God is moving and working.