{lessons learned: Part 1}

(Sorry, this post is really long. I took the liberty of bolding the important parts for all of you who tend to skim.)

I've felt called to help with Sunday school for quite a while. It’s one of things that I’ve always been afraid to try because I don’t have any experience working with kids. And I have always felt like God has been leaning on me to try it out before I say, "No, that's just not for me."

In an effort to start getting involved at church, I took my first task to be signing up as an assistant in children's Sunday school this month. I felt really good about my decision...right up until the night before. The whole evening I spent dreading the next morning, and wondering what I had been thinking. Part of the problem was not having a clue was I was actually going to be doing, nor what exact time I was supposed to show up. I woke up several times during the night at the end of one anxious dream after another. I even had a dream that I planned to leave the house a half hour too late--which was actually a blessing, because I had actually planned to leave a half hour late and only the dream made me realize my mistake (thank you Lord!). That first Sunday morning, I arrived at church, stomachache and nerves tagging along. Though he wasn’t slated to help, a very sweet Paul stuck by my side that morning to help out and provide moral support for me. Fifteen minutes into it, while all the kids were gathering in one room for worship, I was fine though, and Paul went off to the worship service. At that point I was surprised to find myself in my element--directing lost families into the correct room, locating colored nametags, handing out snacks and ensuring that each kid was sitting in their assigned row.

God decided it would be "funny" to assign me the class of 15 almost first graders—you know, those adorable kids who have zero attention span for listening to boring Bible stories. While the teacher told the story of Joseph, I sat amongst the kids agonizing and analyzing what I should do—if anything—as the kids whispered, shook their snack cups, looked pretty much anywhere but at the teacher. Thankfully, our real task was to help the kids make wind socks. I did much better assisting the kids with a specific task...and a crafty one at that—than figuring out what appropriate course of behavior control was supposed to be. But even during crafts, I was forever on edge about what I was expected to do with wound-up Sunday school students.

Fast forward to this last Sunday, as the kids started to assemble themselves for worship. Somehow, I ended up as the only adult in the room that knew what to do. So without missing a beat, adeptly directed families, assigned colors, guided kids and wrote missing nametags. After a frustrating and disheartening hour with my first-graders, I felt confirmed in what I’ve always known--that my passions and gifts do not lie in working with a class of little kids. Not that I shouldn’t help out or get out of my comfort zone, but teaching kids—at least a class of them--is simply not one of my spiritual gifts. And I think that’s okay. But this wasn’t the lesson I learned. Those two mornings spent stepping up to the plate when called, organizing and directing and taking charge—that was so far out of my comfort zone, but at the same time came so naturally. I have the gift of administration. I can get the job done. I pay attention to details and notice when people need help. (Yes, you’d think I would have figured this out by now, but that’s a whole other issue.) Thank you, Lord, for enlightening me.


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