Called from the Cradle - Unraveling My Story to Pastoral Ministry {{ part one }}
There is a big part of my story that is somewhat untapped. A significant element of my training at Calvin Theological Seminary has been exploring who God has redeemed me to be, an ever-growing and sanctifying process. I'd be remiss if I didn't write about the small country church I was born into 48 years ago and at which I enjoyed the first decade of my life. Its significance and impact still move me today. I recognize this as foundational to my call to ministry.
I have always admired the courage of my parents. At the young age of 22, they moved to a small town far from the familiar to curate a home, begin a career, and start a family. Their faith called them to find a church home in a town where they knew little to no one. A place where they could worship, learn, serve, love, and grow in the name of Jesus. They found a local church planted out of the same denomination they were raised in. They connected early with Pastor Pete, an Evangelist who was roughly their age and filled with the Spirit's fire. He delivered the Word on the weekly as his wife played the psalter hymns on the piano at his side. My parents forged new friendships, and soon, they were expecting me.
I was baptized there but I didn't know the growing pains and challenges my folks faced in those early days being members of an evolving church. I tend to remember all the good. I recall the collection of characters that made up that body of Christ located on a quiet, hilly road adjacent to a vineyard. It was a melting pot of ages and socio-economic status. Christians long-time and new, along with the questioning and curious. We worshipped together and had pot-luck picnics, Christmas programs, and Easter celebrations. Vacation Bible School in the summer and oh, the excitement at the construction of a new youth building in the back parking lot.
My parents were active in leadership, and I was proud as could be that my dad was the "Sunday School Superintendent." As kids, we would bring in our coins for offering and put them inside a little white plastic bank-- shaped, of course, like a chapel. It was as hot as could be in the summer as I watched the blue wall fans oscillate back and forth. I folded the paper bulletin into a fan. The colorful stained glass windows delighted my eyes, and I looked intently at the mouths of the congregants singing "Praise to the Lord the Almighty, the King of Creation." I ate LifeSavors candy while following the intensity and inflection of the pastor's Gospel-strong message.
I paint this picture not to highlight my particular or perhaps peculiar ways or to boast about an idyllic childhood, even as I am so grateful for the simplicity and stability I was given. I recall these memories and experiences to point to God and recognize how he was planting something deep within my soul.
So what was happening? And why does it matter now?
What was happening was something I have come to realize with greater clarity and appreciation in mid-life. Call it what you will: community, fellowship, family of God, body of Christ, "doing life together." I think I first heard the following term while simultaneously experiencing its goodness at the ripe old age of 8.
Koinōnia —fellowship, the close association between persons emphasizing what is common between them; by extension, participation, sharing, contribution, and gift, the outcome of such close relationships.
What was happening wasn't always perfect. In a church body of fallible humans, there was also pain and power struggles. I will never forget the moment my Dad, who was on the church steering board, had to share with the congregation that our small, emerging, not yet self-sustaining (organized) church was being forced to combine with the neighboring church in town. A young girl pays close attention to the emotional crack in her father's voice and still hasn't forgotten. This merger, which I can only hope was prayerfully discerned, ended the chapter on something beautiful.
Soon, this close fellowship would shift and change. Some would remain, others would perhaps quietly drift away. I think so often of those persons who made up that little church on that rural road. I lament that Pastor Pete would have to say goodbye due in large part to the fact that his credentials were Evangelist and not Minister of the Word, although he was, in every meaningful sense, a shepherd to that flock.
What was happening even in the midst of that sorrow was the genesis of a spiritual call on my life. Although I cannot recall my infant baptism into that covenant of believers, what I do know is that on that day, God spoke with unwavering and steadfast love. He claimed me as His own, and so began my belovedness in Christ and my deep love for His bride, the church.
Our family relocated shortly thereafter due to a change in my dad's work. What followed was the next season of my curiosity and attentiveness to life in the church. And oh, what a season it was for a young woman to behold.
{{ Part Two }} coming soon...
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