"I get it now."

“Pick out a chair, a journal, and your favorite little stuffy. There’s a blanket in your chair and it’s yours whenever you’re here.”

Smiling teenagers sank into a purple papazan chair. Yes, the same chairs we used a few weeks ago for our Christmas Eve family gathering. I saw the magical power of the blankets so decided to do the same for our teens.

We closed our eyes, listened to soft music, and I led them in a guided meditation. We listened to our bodies, had a conversation with God next to their favorite body of water, and breathed ourselves home for a few minutes.

Then we passed around a little cross my dad recently gifted my daughter. Each teen and adult shared a high and a low while lights twinkled in the background. The air crackled with an energy that felt like safety and honesty.

Tears spilled out my eyes later that evening as I processed this little magical space we’re creating with teens in our community.

Yes to games and Cheetos. Crafts and laughter. Stories and questions. But my heart could feel multiple layers of love co-existing at the same time.

There was the beauty of new community coming to life with all its awkward earnest steps. There was the hesitancy of braving connection. Can I trust this? Can I trust them? Am I genuinely welcome here? Is all of who I am welcome here?

As we passed that little cross around the room and I watched teens roll it around in their hands while sharing, I thought of all the teens over the past decades who’ve passed that very cross around the circle while expressing a glimpse into their lives. Grateful for the ways my dad created sacred community for so many.

I thought of the teens I’ve gotten to love in Cocoa, Florida and Dayton, Ohio and Anchorage, Alaska. My heart swelled with memories of what can happen when a group of humans practice trust together. The trips, the conversations, the questions, the friendships, and the love we embody as community.

My mind drifted to all I’m learning about healing nervous systems, neurodivergent humans, and internal family systems. How I’m slowly integrating those modalities into faith communities too.

Some people think youth group is just about pizza and games. Let’s get more kids there so we can feel good about our growing church.

Oh my. That’s not even the thing at all.

Every time a human braves vulnerability and looks up to see nodding heads and gentle smiles? That heals something in all of us.

That is the power of allowing our hearts to be seen and loved.
That is the power of trusting others with part of our story.
That is the power of learning to affirm and love another human.

And to me, that’s at the heart of healthy faith communities.

It’s at the heart of being healthy humans, regardless of whether faith is important to you.

And honestly, I think that’s a thing I struggle with lately. So much of what it means to be a person of faith has been co-opted by Christian nationalism and other strains of theology I want nothing to do with. It causes me to want to reject the packaging of faith. Which is a worthy conversation. Because what’s inside it — love, releasing pain, transformation, vulnerability, justice, lament, an economy of grace and radical solidarity…

Damn. That continues to reverberate in my soul.

But the way so many have come to see faith and the church is … not that.

So I remain wandering somewhere along the edges of church. Doing anything I can to help us see what I believe the heart of the Jesus life has always been about. But also trying not to reject the entire thing because wow, we’ve got some absolutely terrible stories in the mix too.

As I ease into a season of identifying as a youth pastor again, I do so with some trepidation and uncertainty. The world has changed in the past few decades. Teens have new language and practices and jokes. But I’m slowly finding out the best news of all. Turns out their hearts ache for the same thing mine did in middle school.

Can someone help me see me?
Will I still be loved?
Who is God and can I trust this kind of love?
Can I make a difference in the world?
Can I ask my questions here?

Yes. My beloved friends — the answer is always and forever… yes.

My newly-minted thirteen-year-old and I rode home together from youth group. We chatted about how it all felt. I heard her say, “Mom, I think I get it now. The meaningful parts of youth group you’ve talked about. That was nice.”

A few tears slid down my cheeks.

It was one of those moments where it felt like my work here is done. And yet, we’re just getting started. Amen.