A Fresh Start {it happened on a sunday} day 15

Part of the good Christian childhood I'd experienced was Church Camp.  This could be in the form on an actual week away from home, hiking and making macaroni art and, in my case, acquiring poison ivy no matter far I stayed away from the woods.  It could also be weekend retreats, camp meeting, or overnight lock ins.  The format stayed the same:  do something fun, maybe silly skits or large group games, maybe a concert or some kind of icebreaker, then something serious.  A guest speaker, a traveling minister, a well-meaning youth pastor.

All the kids who'd somehow been tricked into coming, or had the intention of hooking up with girls (an ill-fated endeavor at least 90% of the time) were suddenly confused and being admonished to settle down.  All the church kids switched on their Sunday morning faces and best behavior.  The gospel was preached in one form or another, and then came the Mountaintop Moment.  The altar call. The confession.  The repentant journey to the front of the room.  The vow that everything was going to be different once we got back home.

I saw it a hundred times, from the comfort of my seat.  I did not join in with these moments, because I never felt that high emotion.  Occasionally I squirmed in my chair from shame or embarrassment, but nothing was going to make me stand up and admit to my peers that I was in need of forgiveness.  It was all so phony anyway.  It was like the same people confessed the same things over and over, and nothing ever changed.  Nobody got rid of their Eminem CDs once they got home, or finally quit smoking in secret, or actually seemed to be the new creation the speaker had promised we would become.  I was cynical about the whole process from a very young age.

Which made it all the more strange when, at the age of 23, I actually felt the presence of God, I actually experienced the moment of conversion, I actually had a change of heart and wanted to be a better person.  I'd been baptized and was ready to start living for Jesus, and I had no idea where to begin.

I can remember the Sunday I sat in my car, waiting to get out of the church parking lot with a couple thousand other people, and I decided to become the next Mother Theresa.  Operating a world-wide network of orphanages and palliative care facilities in developing nations and having international attention was a far cry from where I sat, obscure and new to feelings like compassion and empathy.  So I decided to do the most accessible thing I could, the first step toward my goal:  I joined a group from the church who served dinner to a low-income neighborhood once a week.

It was uncomfortable.  It was weird.  I had no idea how to interact with people who were morbidly obese or bearing neck tattoos, restraining pit bulls and yelling at their kids.  I have no idea if I made any sort of difference in the lives of the neighborhood's residents.  My husband was mortified when he found out where I was going, asking me if I at least carpooled so our car wouldn't get broken into and made sure to have a buddy at all times.  (His fears have a little basis, as I tend to not notice if I'm going into an area that can best be described as "sketchy," although nothing bad has ever happened to me in an inner city area.  I tend to be more afraid of the suburbs, with their deceptively nice-looking homes and dark secrets.)

But serving dinner led to mentoring middle school girls at the church which led to hospital visits and office work in a downtown soup kitchen which led to a Big Brothers/Big Sister match which led to becoming foster parents which led to welcoming people into our home from all walks of life.  Those dinners in the ghetto might not have been influential alone, but that one step towards becoming a person of service and compassion led to many more opportunities to learn how to actually love people.  Rather than throwing myself prostrate at a temporary weekend altar, I threw myself into the paths of drug addicts and orphans and sinners and all sorts of marginalized folks.

I began to realize, over and over again, that we are not so different.  We are all people, with hearts that beat and pasts to overcome and a deep desire for connection.  We hunger and thirst and bleed and cry, we struggle and fall and get back up.  And we need each other almost as much as we need God.