Transformation. The word of Friday night. It's the word of my life, truly. It's the theme of this weekend's Simply Youth Ministry conference for youth workers. I'm exhausted. Like I said a few blogs ago, there's no way you can "overfeed" your spirit. But there are times when the emotions and breadth of what you're listening to become overwhelming for your heart. It's that near crying moment. You know everything your hearing has some profound truth, that each word and phrase was meant exactly for you at this very moment.
The day started just the opposite. Snooze after snooze. Although the first sunny day in months awaited, I slept in. That turned into a frantic search for my son's clip-on tie for his Young Gents meeting he has in school. His pants were on the floor, inside out, and when I slapped them in the air to straighten out the wrinkles like I would a carpet, I realized there was a grass stain on the knee. That led to a decision to wear jeans. You would have thought I was torturing my son. Jeans and a long-sleeve shirt.
I was met at school by students who aren't even in my classroom who want to avoid the substitute teacher they know is waiting for them by hiding out in my room. I could literally have 50 kids all crammed in one room, all wanting to sharpen pencils, organize my desk and tell me silly stories from their lives. The bell rings, I'm in the hallway and doing my usual walk-in-A-line routine. I end up face to face with a new student who isn't backing down. These are the mornings that I wonder why I work with kids. They want confrontation. It's the one thing in which they can excel.
My own students are walking on egg shells. There was some disturbance the day before when I took a half day. I can see the look in their eyes. Like they know in their one moment of impulsivity they have disappointed me. I craved that look as a new teacher. Now I just want them to relax.
But before the morning was done, the decision to stay in that moment of moodiness that typically would ruin my day was taken from me. I pulled the new kid aside, talked, apologized, invited. That's my true self. It's the easiest part of my day that does not involve decimals or cause and effect charts. I can read the face of one my most trying students. I've brushed him off this week. Stop whining. Put your big boy pants on. But the words of motivation come easy, and the face looking back at me changes. That's my true self.
The day went through its paces. I ended up splitting a class up just after diffusing a fight. I leave one room unattended to help with another unattended group. I'm mad about kids who throw the hollow tennis balls that fit on the table legs across the room. I have films and team building games ready. Then everything is in lockdown mode. Now I'm the teacher that punishes the entire class which in turn ends up punishing me.
This day has played a familiar beat. Step out in faith, the target on your back becomes larger. I've had some of my worst denials just before reaching a mountain top experience. I've walked away from great moments of grace and faith to the doubts of my mind when I'm alone on the couch. Perhaps it's the scenery. The same place I sit every night and ponder the day, processing the tv noise, sliding the images of my phone friends up like some digital scroll. It's the same place where I've given up. The place where food becomes therapy.
It was this same couch where I told my wife that perhaps this was the last year for me as a youth worker. Men's Ministry is still calling me. Every outburst from my son in some ways becomes this totem pole in the middle of my house that displays all my parenting fails. I'm busy. Let's not carpool tonight either, I told her too. No friends. No anyone. Just me and you, babe.
But those thoughts too were the doubts. Not good enough. Not thin enough. Not important enough.
All that feeling quickly changed being crammed in the back seat of a mini-van on the way to the conference's opening night. Upon arrival the layers of doubt begin to be chiseled away. Laughter bursts through my sediments like dynamite. Our group is a few feet away from the sound stage's subwoofers. The band begins and the music is at once haunting, melodic, hymnal, sprinkled with bit parts trombone and violin. The last time I felt music like that was last year in Oklahoma. Soul stirring.
More laughter. Hugs from old friends. All the questions I had going in are slipping from me, exfoliated by grace. I'm praying in a room of 2,000 people. At one point across the stage I can see one youth worker dancing alone in the aisle while everyone around him was sitting. No care in the world. And here I am still wanting to complain about my schedule, my needs.
The message is one of discipleship. Do we as youth workers spend so much time telling the kids what to do that we don't actively imitate God, allowing them to see a practical, real-life living? Stories of transformation. Stories of hope. I want the ceiling of my life to be the floor of a future generation. Wow, what a phrase. I'm exposed once again for a fool. The spotlight is one me again with God showing me once again that there aren't any puppet strings attached to my frame. Instead it's a pair of hands. I'm here, they call. I've been here. Have you forgotten?
So the devil didn't win tonight. I came home with my stomach hurting from the laughter one has with friends. My wife is making late-night lunches for tomorrow. I'm high lighting tomorrow's sessions, double-checking my options. God already knows what I'm going to learn over the next few days. One thing is for certain, the heart that beats for Him is "overfed" once more. A heart can be overfed, in my opinion. This allows it to drip grace with every step. Be a difference maker. Leave a legacy. Transform.
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