Life is weird.
Or I’m weird.
Or we’re both weird.

I’m sitting in my bed on a Saturday preparing for a final interview for a children’s ministry position. I’m scrawling notes in my notebook that say things like “volunteer recruiting and retention” or “parent ownership and involvement”. That’s only weird because it’s something I thought I would never do again. It’s something I thought I walked away from for good and on purpose.

But it’s something I’ve been drawn back to…on purpose.

I tried running away. I tried running away as hard as I could and still, I found myself like Jonah, thrown somewhere I didn’t really want to be against my will. I only hope I didn’t smell like fish vomit…
Then, I tried slowly walking away. I tried to leave my calling behind, like a box of unwanted junk. This box of unwanted junk wasn’t really unwanted by *me*, but rather other people who said I shouldn’t want it. I took all of the negative circumstances of past experiences and made up a laundry list of why they were right. It is very compelling, but it is only one dimensional. It is one dimensional and rooted in fear. Fear is so loud, but it is a liar. It screams, it stomps around, and it says I can either have faith or fear, but I cannot have both. Fear wants nothing more than to prove me wrong, but for every negative circumstance, there are multiple positive circumstances that tell the other side of the story.

In my growing and learning, I’ve learned that I can hold faith and fear at the same time. I can hold faith in my calling and move forward, and still walk with shaky knees and sweaty hands. I can use every negative experience, every fear, as an opportunity for redemption or growth. And I can use every positive experience as an affirmation.

One of my favorite writers, Elizabeth Gilbert, wrote: “I’ve had to keep defining and defending myself as a writer every single day of my adult life — constantly reminding and re-reminding my soul and the cosmos that I’m very serious about the business of creative living, and that I will never stop creating, no matter what the outcome, and no matter how deep my anxieties and insecurities may be.” I can replace “writer” with “children’s ministry person” and claim the truth that I will never stop, no matter what my insecurities or anxieties tell me.

Right now, my fear is loud. It screams “I TOLD YOU SO!” and throws my insecurities around like confetti in indignant celebration. But my faith moves on, slowly and with great purpose, even while fear follows behind like a New Orleans second line parade.

Here I wait, at the crossroads of what if and what if not, as life as I know it comes barreling toward a great change.
But I wait with the expectancy and joy of a calling realized.