My Path to Youth With A Mission (YWAM)

    I started going to church when I went into foster care.  I remember always feeling at peace there.  I couldn't explain it then, I just knew I loved to go.  That continued throughout my elementary and middle school years.  My friends were at church.  My sense of family came from church.  One time, my mom asked my why I liked going to church.  My answer?  It made me feel good.  To her, that was the wrong answer,  To me, it was the only answer.  You see, somewhere along the way, I met Jesus. He drew me to church.  He kept luring me back.

     When I was in ninth grade, our church split.  I didn't fully understand what happened. I just knew I lost my friends.  I lost many of the feelings I associated with church.  My safety. My comfort.  My peace.  But I still had Him.

     During my high school years we attended a small, non-denominational church.  I made new friends. None enduring like from my childhood, but I was accepted.  If the doors were open, we were there.  I loved going to the youth group and being with my friends, but by my senior year I had drifted away from Him.
     When I graduated I got a job in a grocery store where I was able to work on Sundays.  That was an acceptable, though not thrilling, excuse for my parents. 

     When summer ended, I started college.  I continued working at the grocery store.  God kept speaking, but I was becoming immune to His voice.  I no longer felt the weight of what was happening. I went to church and youth group when I didn't have to work, but I was essentially going through the motions.
     Our pastor was young and very outreach oriented.  He was always trying to keep the youth engaged.  One of those ideas was to invite  a group of young missionaries to visit  our church for a weekend.  Of course, my parents hosted two members of the team.
     It was like torture for me!  They exuded Christ.   I was rude to them.  They were kind to me.  I couldn't wait for it all to be over.
   
     Sunday morning finally rolled around.  I sat in the back rows with the rest of the youth group.  I had already decided nothing was going to stir me.  I sat there, arms firmly folded across my chest.  We talked and passed notes, not paying attention to the service.
     A huge ministry tool of YWAM is skits and drama.  They grabbed attention and shared simple truths.  I remember music and movement.  At one point, they were portraying the crucifixion.  My eyes were drawn to the stage.

     "You did that."  The voice was clear as day. I looked around.  No one else seemed to have heard it.

     "You did that",  He said, as the nails were driven into the actor's hands.

     I began to argue.  I wasn't even there.  How was I responsible?  I was a good person.  What about the person who molested me, or the father who abused me.  Why wasn't it their fault?

     "Even if you were the only one left on the planet, He still would have died for you."

     Those words pierced my heart.  Tears streamed down my cheeks.  I knew He was right.  That's who He is, regardless of who I was.
     I don't remember the wording of the altar call, but I do remember being propelled forward.  I felt as if someone was pushing me from behind.  I felt a hand on my back, but no one was there.

     "Come", He said.   I practically floated down the aisle.  The two girls who stayed at our house, the ones I had treated so poorly, prayed for me.  They hugged me tight!  I felt a closeness to God that I hadn't felt in quite some time.  I decided then and there that I wanted to be a part of this ministry.
     My pastor drove me from Ligonier to Titusville, Pa, to see the base and get more information .  I was hooked!  I needed to be part of it,  However, I  was in my spring term at college and needed to follow through with that commitment.  So I applied for the group starting in September, six months away.
     The school semester ended but I still hadn't received my acceptance into the program.  My pastor called their office.  No one seemed to know what was happening with my application.  I began to feel like they didn't want me.  Like God didn't want me.

      I was still working at the grocery store, but I also added a job in direct sales.  My powers of persuasion weren't great.  Selling wasn't my thing.  I was shy and insecure.  However, that job introduced me to a whole new realm of friends.  Drinking friends.  Buddies, if you will.
     Our sales meetings were on Wednesday nights.  Again, work, so I got out of church.  These "sales meetings" were just a reason to get together and drink ourselves into oblivion.  After which I would drive home.

      I was still praying, journaling, believing in Him.  I just didn't feel the connection with church anymore.  My new crowd was this work crew.  I may have been putting distance between the church and me, but He hadn't given up.
     God began to speak to me, audibly, in my car during the 30-minute drive home from those meetings.  Now, I know a lot of people don't believe God speaks audibly anymore.  And why would he choose to talk to a drunk girl driving on the highway?  I don't want to argue with you.  I'm just telling you my experience.
   
     I clearly remember the first time it happened.  I was rounding the curve near a dam, in the pitch dark, in the middle of the night.

       "Regina."

     I actually looked in the back seat, expecting one of my friends to be hiding back there.  No one.  That sobered me up pretty fast.  This became a weekly occurrence.  I'd get in my car to drive home and I'd hear it.

     "Regina".

     I began turning up my radio really loud, trying to drown out His voice.  It never worked.  He spoke my name so clearly.  So softly.

     I partied that whole summer, making one bad decision after another.  I put myself in situations that could have ended really badly, but He protected me.  Even when I felt like He didn't want me, He was there.
     I finally received my acceptance into YWAM in August, five weeks before the program started.  I was elated!  He did want me!  Then reality set in.  I suddenly felt very dirty.  Unworthy.

     "Come."  It was that familiar voice.  So calming, so reassuring.

     Those next few weeks flew by as I tied up loose ends and prepared to go.  Finally the day came when I was to move in.  My parents drove me the four hours to my new home.  They hadn't seen the base before.  I think they were expecting a more traditional setting.  Instead, there was an office building, another for meals and classes, and four run-down mobile homes.  Later, my mom told me how she cried on the way back home because she felt so bad leaving me there.
   
     I finally felt at home.

Would you go back....

     I'll admit it.  I'm on facebook.  A lot.  I'm able to have contact with people from different periods in my life.  I like that.  It's interesting, even fun, to see how people's lives have changed.  I enjoy seeing the cheerleaders wrinkled and gray-haired.  I like seeing the football players fat and bald.  Is this childish?  Perhaps.  But admit it.  You like it, too.

     One thing I see on facebook often is people wanting to go back to an earlier time in their life, whether it be to a simpler time or to have the opportunity to do things differently.  I see the questions of "wouldn't it be great to be a kid again?" Nope.  Or "wouldn't it be fun to be in high school again?"  Never in a million years would I go back there.  If you've read my earlier posts, you know exactly why.  I am completely happy with where I am now.  I'm more whole than I have been in my entire life.

     My  Youth With A Mission (YWAM) days are different.  Those years were some of the best of my life, and ones I wouldn't mind revisiting. That's where I met my best friend of 32 years (she's the one in the hat in the photo).  It's also where I met my husband of almost 30 years.  I loved that time in my life!

     YWAM was the first place I was allowed to be an individual, as evidenced by the above photo.  No one cared that I didn't fit the mold.   No one cared that I wore make-up different from theirs.  I was able to dress like Molly Ringwald in "Pretty in Pink" and nobody made a big deal about it.  My individuality had been discouraged most of my life.  It was nice to finally be me.

     YWAM is also where my healing began.  I discovered that I could actually be friends with a guy and there be no expectations.  This was such a foreign concept to me.  I'll be honest, it took a little while for this to sink in.  But I was in a safe place that allowed me room to grow.
     It was during this time that I began to unpack the trauma from my childhood.  Everything from that time had been neatly packed away, emotions and all.  I had believed that once I could tell my story without feeling it, without tears, that it meant I was healed.  Yeah, that's not really how it works.

    The nice thing about the YWAM days was basically living in a commune with only limited interactions with the outside world.  We spent 6-7 hours a day in classes, learning who God was and why He mattered to our lives.  The more I learned about Him, the more I changed.

    Grew.

    Healed.

It softened my edges and gave me hope.  Those were some of the best years of my life.
 
     I was watching a church service last night and they were really stressing the importance of taking the time to remember.  Remember where you have come from.  Remember how far you have come.  Remember the things God has done in your life.
 
     Remember.  But don't get stuck back there.  Not when so much is pressing you forward.

Double standards

I hate double standards.  Don't apply something to other people if you aren't prepared to also apply it to yourself.  The mere thought that you have already attained is proof you still have work to do.  Where is the room for grace when all you see is someone's track record?

I am not the most compassionate, gracious person.  I'm the first to admit that.  But I don't want to set my standards so low for others that I just beat them over the head with their past behavior, never expecting them to achieve, mature and grow.  And I pray that's not what people do to me.

I believe it's true, in some cases, that people will never change.  But I do not think it's true of everyone.  It's our jobs to spur eachother on, to sharpen them and help them become their best.  How can that be accomplished if we just expect them to fail?  We all have a past.  We all have baggage. We all have patterns of behavior that we allow to define us, for better or worse.

I hate to imagine where I would be if people had not invested time, love and understand in me.  What if people had just determined that I was a damaged, shy, broken little girl who would never change and they just ket expecting me to stay damaged, shy and broken because that was my track record?  Well, thankfully, I have never been one to fit into someone else's idea of what I should be!

Growth and change are not easy, but it's more palatable when someone comes alongside you, helping to carry your load instead of beating you down, burying you, with it.

A new year

Well, today begins 2013 and many people are making resolutions.
I've never been into that.  Frankly, I lack follow-through.  It just seems to take so much work.
I would like to see change, but get overwhelmed with the whole process.  So, I am going to start out simply.

I'm going to write more.  Those of you following me should enjoy that!  I'm not commiting to "what" I'll write, just that I will.  I find it cathartic.  It helps me to process without the messiness of actually involving another person, on a personal level.  Maybe, someday, that will make the list.

I'm going to juice more.  It makes me feel good.  It takes time but I'm worth it.

I'm going to love more deeply.  Or, maybe it's better to say I will let those I love KNOW how much they are loved.  It's not good enough to just asume they know, or to take these relationships for granted.  I don't want to grow complacent and stop making my loved ones feel cherished, important and loved.

And, finally, I'm going to let go.  I have worked long and hard to become who I am, where I am.  While scars show where I have been, they do not determine where I am headed.  So, I am going to see them as links in a chain or stepping stones in a path: merely a means of getting from one place to another.  Not a destination.  I am not meant to stay where I am, to stagnate.  Moving on is not fun and letting go of what is known, even if it's negative, scares the crap out of me but is necessary for a life worth living.

Off I go....