Saved

 

Saved

 

As a shy high school junior, I stumbled into the warmth of CYF (Christian Youth Fellowship) at the local Disciples of Christ church. That warmth was dearly needed for several reasons, most pressingly in that moment after moving (again) from a small-town church and high school to a large city to enter my junior year of high school a month late.  I was welcomed, accepted by a circle who came to know me, to extend love and belonging to me.  I experienced a safe place to go in a new world that had no time for someone shy and unsure.  Able to come out of my shell a bit within the group, I started to value myself and to realize other people liked me even when I was just being myself.

          As a group we were diverse – but from jocks to geeks we shared the assurance that we were loved for our good points with our foibles tolerated.  Squabbles and hurt feelings happened from time to time, but deliberate meanness was the only way to be shunned by the group until real apologies and time mended the fracture.

          One summer day found us on the beach under the supervision of Gary, our youth pastor, sprawled close together, our beach towels a patchwork quilt on the hot sand.  I recall lying face up, the sun pressing on my eyelids while snatches of conversation swooped and darted about my ears.  “Let’s go to the liquor store and get somw cokes.”  “I can’t. I don’t have any money.”  “I do. What do you want?”  In the nonchalant way of teenagers, we gave or received as needed.

          Many of us participated in romance. More than one couple broke up and (driven by hormones and teenage culture) rapidly searched out new sweethearts. Long term animosity was uncommon between ex-couples. Ex-steadies were, after all, included in the folks Jesus said to forgive.

          Once, we painted the outside of an elder parishioner’s house. The workday was punctuated by laughter, snacks and paint fights.  The sight of Katie’s face covered in white enamel exterior paint remains vivid enough to bring a smile and echoes of our young laughter through the years.  When we were done the house had paint on it. (It was a close call whether more paint was on bodies or walls.) Cramming into cars to head for home, we were excited to have done a good work. I’m sure, for most of us, it was a first experience and lesson in helping others as a part of living our faith.  Imperfect, but valuable.

          One recent Sunday I sat in the evening service at church, slightly ruffled by the boisterous actions of our crowd of teenagers, I reminded myself that sixteen or so years ago the adults watched my friends and me in affectionate tolerance as we formed our intimate community within the larger body. A few moments later one teen went to the altar rail to pray; the others came to kneel alongside her. Together they knelt before the Father offering up prayers and tears.  I sat in my pew watching and remembered when I was like them. Glad for them. Grateful on behalf of the girl I was.

          Looking back, I realize the difference those particular two years of CYF made in my life.  I was too callow to internalize many of the finer doctrinal points of Christianity, but the seeds of a mature faith life in the corporate body were planted. We were taught Christ’s love by the activities, group interactions and the generous adults who mentored us. It was the first time I felt truly part of a whole; not just a beggar looking in, afraid to rap on the window.

          Those years and all but one of those people are gone from my life. That it was a place I was accepted in ways I desperately needed, but had not previously experienced, saved me.