Sore. Broken. Bruised. Battered.
Still bleeding.
But sore in a way that one could only be sore after plummeting to the earth on her backside. After making the ridiculous move of precariously balancing herself at the top of her couch. For a picture. A stupid picture that resulted in a body busting of epic proportions.
There is no doubt about it; I feel far worse today than I did yesterday.
I guess I should simply be grateful I didn’t break anything, because the more and more I think about it – it really is a miracle considering how I fell and how high up I fell from.
But yes, I am sore.
And that soreness (combined with the pain from yet another period rearing its ugly endometriosis head) should have been enough to keep me curled up in bed today.
Except, that wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t what I needed. For whatever reason, I had a strong voice whispering in my ear that what I needed was at church. Where I needed to be, was in that building today.
And so I got up, gingerly and with care. I deposited myself in the shower and turned the water to as hot as it would go – hoping only for some of the tension in my muscles to be released.
I didn’t eat, because in all reality – I have a really difficult time eating when Aunt Flo is in town. But I did get dressed, and I grabbed my bible as I hobbled out the door.
I made it in to church just minutes before worship service was ending. Late, as usual. And I sat down for a message I had been avoiding for weeks.
You see, my church has been looking for volunteers for the Sunday school and the nursery for a little while now. I have heard them ask for people to sign up more than once. And every time I've heard this call; I've ignored it.
There has been this nagging voice in my head telling me to sign up since the beginning. But… I haven’t wanted to. I haven’t wanted to expose myself to other people’s children if we’re being completely honest. Me. The girl who has always been at her best around kids. I haven’t wanted to do it. I haven’t even really wanted to be around my friends children, so why on earth would I volunteer to work with the children of the congregation?
Forget the fact that two years ago you wouldn’t have been able to keep me off that sign up list. That I would have taken working with kids over just about anything. That I was the girl at baby showers huddled up playing games with the toddlers in attendance instead of gossiping with my friends.
That children were my passion. My heart. My purpose.
Forget that my entire life, all I have ever wanted was to be around kids. That it’s been the area where I have always felt the most fulfilled and happy.
Forget that this was an opportunity I would have jumped at not too long ago.
Now, the idea of working with other people’s kids in any kind of regular capacity makes my heart ache. Because it feels like it could only serve as a reminder of what I don’t have.
What I may never have.
Beyond that, I’ve never felt that I was best suited to guide anyone else in their relationship with God. The truth is that I feel as though I falter in my faith a great deal. That in many ways, I am not a good worshiper. I question, I disobey, and I rebel. Often. I have all the faith in the world in this heart of mine, but I don’t act upon it in the ways I should. So if I can’t even keep my own faith in check, who am I to instruct anyone else on how to maintain theirs? Especially children?
Which all translates to mean that yes, while I have felt this call week after week, I have ignored it. While I have heard the voice whispering in my ear to sign up, I have told myself that someone else would volunteer. That surely the list would fill up overnight, because everyone wants to work with kids.
Right?
This can’t possibly have been a call meant just for me. Someone else would pick up the slack.
I have ignored.
Until today. Until I sat in on a sermon about our purpose here on this planet. Our purpose to take our passions/our gifts/our blessings and plant those seeds into the hearts of others. Into the hearts of the next generation. It was a sermon that spoke to me, because I have always felt that my purpose in this life has been to cater to the next generation. To teach, and mold, and guide. I always thought I would be doing it with my own children, but I never thought it would be exclusive to them. My entire life, I have thought I would work with children one day.
And then suddenly over night, the simple thought became too painful to contemplate anymore.
And I don’t know when that happened. I don’t know why that happened. Or rather, I do know why it happened, but I don’t really understand it. Why should my inability to have children wipe clear that passion? Why should it take that desire in my heart away?
Why would I allow it to?
And then I remembered the last item on my 2011 list:
“Trust in God. Always. No matter what.”
Why was it that they hadn’t filled up their volunteers by now? Surely there are enough people in this church that the list should have been overflowing. Why was I feeling, week after week (because they have been posting this request for volunteers on Facebook as well) that this call was being specifically directed towards me? And why was it, that week after week as I ignored, I was feeling more and more like a petulant child for doing so?
When the service ended, I walked out to the sign-up desk and added my name and number to the list. I have no idea what I signed up for. No clue, because there was no one there at the table. Just a request for the names and numbers of interested volunteers.
And this could either be really good, or really bad. It may prove to be far too much for me to handle, or it could be the thing that brings me back. That reintroduces me to my passion.
My passion for children. For working with kids. For catering to the next generation, even as my heart aches over not being able to contribute to that generation.
(Courtesy of Google Images)
I answered the call.
I trusted in God.
And then I walked over to the information desk and signed up for the next Beth Moore bible study as well. The one starting in two weeks. The one that requires a bit of commitment on my part. With homework and Tuesday night meetings with women I didn’t exactly feel a super strong connection with the last time around. I had no real intention of ever doing another study again. I had been ready for the last one to end in fact.
So why had I signed up now? Why had I felt so compelled to attempt another study, on top of volunteering with kids?
Why all the pulls to recommit myself to this church, even as I was sore and in a decent amount of pain?
Even though I've struggled with simply convincing myself to go at all over the last few months.
I walked out of church praying that I hadn’t overcommitted myself. That I hadn’t somehow just bitten off more than I could chew. More than I was really capable of dealing with in my still weak and broken hearted state.
But then I remembered that I've made the decision to have a little more trust in God to guide me right now. To tell me where I’m supposed to be.
And if I was hearing those calls, there was a reason for it.
I just needed to have faith enough to answer.
So, I answered the call.
And now I guess we'll just have to see where that leads me.
