Five Years On

Nine years ago, a Sunday morning. The rooms we, the church, met in were bustling. It was a big day. We were to bid farewell to faithful pastors that had led us for 7 years. And I was to become the new lead pastor.

I found an empty room, I slid in, and I closed the door. I read an email from my dad encouraging me, a kind of a blessing as I began a new season. I had on a navy blue wrap dress. I took my shoes off and knelt down.

“I’ve asked for too much,” I said. “You’ve got to help me,” I said. I sat for a moment, my forehead pressed to the carpet. (I realized after a moment I might leave the room with a red spot on my forehead, so I stopped that quickly.) “I don’t know how to do this,” I said.

I straightened up, checked my skirt, and exited the room before someone tried to come in and it was awkward. The morning feels like a blur to me. I stood in front of the room and some of the leadership laid their hands on me and commissioned me into leadership of that church.

I had no idea what lay before me. I was 33 years old. I was excited and intimidated.

Five years ago, a Sunday morning. July 3. A ring on my finger and a baby in my belly. We wore masks. I didn’t kneel on the floor of what had become the church nursery. There were too many good-byes. I was packed, ready to fly out the next day, a final goodbye to my home of 11 years.

I preached out of Psalm 126 that morning. The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy. At the end of service, the team sang “The Blessing” over me. A blessing for me, and the child I carried, and the one to come. We wept together.

I visited the church a few months ago and I couldn’t help but cry when the room exploded into praise as soon as the music started. Raucous joy. I’d missed it. I watched people I pulled into leadership as they led well. I grieved. I celebrated.

We can tend to stay in wonderful seasons in the past. We have to find the difference between living in those seasons as opposed to taking the things we learned and launching into the present season. We have to be where we are, fully. The past isn’t better. It is beautiful and maybe the past held a lovely unawareness of grief that we’ve walked through. But we’re meant to stand on it and build, not dig back into it and stay.

Five years today since I walked out of the hotel where the church meets, put my nametag in my bag, and knew I wouldn’t use it again. Five years of trying to find my identity in the after, in a place I might not have chosen for myself, in a life that feels so noisy and chaotic compared to the before.

So five years on, it is time to revisit what Christ has called me to. It will look different than it did five years ago or nine years ago. But it is here and I am ready.