Most music majors encounter little-fish-in-a-big-pond syndrome early in their freshman year of college - they're used to being the best person, or among the best people, in their school's music program, and have likely experienced that from elementary school all the way through graduating high school. I entered college having already been a little fish in the big pond throughout my high school career; I was always above average, but never one of the best singers in high school choir.
You'd think that being used to the idea of being good but not the best would have made my transition into a college music program easier, but it didn't. You see, I never quite felt like I fit in. I lacked many of the music experiences that most of my peers had had, some because I wasn't in my high school's top tier, others because I had gone the well-rounded route in high school rather than the all-music-all-the-time route that most of my peers had gone, meaning that I sometimes had to pass up music opportunities because of commitments to my other activities. Beyond my varied high school experience, I also didn't fit the music major mold, at least not at the college I attended. My college had one of the more elite music programs at least in the region (if not a greater area), and I appreciate the high-caliber education I received, but I didn't always ascribe to the same opinions of what "real music" was. As a double-major, I still didn't spend my life in the all-music-all-the-time world (and the one year that almost all of my classes were music ones, while academically rewarding, was one of the toughest social years of my life).
All of these things combined together meant that I left college with almost no self-confidence in my abilities as a musician or a music teacher. I've always loved music, but most of me has known since 11th grade that I wanted more than anything to be a music teacher. I graduated with a double-major and I hold dual licensure in music and math, but I've known for a while that my heart is in teaching music. Even so, confidence in my abilities as a musician and a music teacher have been a daily struggle for much of the last decade.
There have been people who told me that I'm a good singer, but it's hard to believe the ones who aren't immersed in the music world. I still have no clue what most of my college music professors thought of me, though academically I generally did well. I'm pretty convinced that my advisor was hoping that I'd land a math teaching job and not screw up music for the rest of the music world. My voice teacher always believed in me, but she was also a bit of a department outcast, so I still felt out of place. I didn't know until my senior year that my college choir director believed in me (which, strangely enough, I learned when his way of trying to help me when I was having a panic attack on the sidewalk of a church on tour was to tell me to imagine my first day in my own music classroom and how great it would be). I ended college with only two close music friends who have believed in me. In my first music teaching job last year, I had to work really hard to convince myself that it my two former elementary music teachers (now colleagues) believed in me for reasons beyond the fact that I had been their student. Until I got to interact with her yesterday, I was afraid of what the district music person would think of the fact that I did indeed land back in the district after my position was cut. And I'm still a little terrified to learn the reaction of my high school choir director upon learning that I'm now the choir teacher at one of the schools that feeds into her high school program (because to this day I have no clue what she thinks of me). Given the uncertain views that the musically-trained people around me had about my music abilities, it was hard to find confidence in myself.
It wasn't until about a year ago that I started to believe that I might have some advanced music skills (which I probably should have after earning a music degree). I joined a church choir, and discovered that my ability to quickly learn music was well above many other members. I was soon invited to join an additional, higher-level church choir and easily found my fit with them musically as well. Auditioning for and making it into the choir for my district's variety show was also a boost in confidence (though more as a performer in general after the number of compliments I got on how much I sparkled on stage - which was something I'd rarely if ever been told before).
Were it not for those boosts in confidence through the year, I don't know that I would have been as successful as I was when I was invited to audition for an elite choir formerly connected with the church I attended last year. In an audition where my musicianship was tested more than my individual vocal talent, I was nervous but confident enough to hold my own. (Ever try singing "The Star Spangled Banner" in minor by ear and then have to partway through make up a harmony part to it by ear? One of the most rewardingly-challenging things I've ever done as a singer.) And for the first time in a decade I auditioned for and made it into an elite vocal ensemble; I've never been more honored to be part of such a talented group of musicians.
I wish I had been able to hold on to my newfound confidence through the summer. I know part of it has been the instability of not having a job, and with each unsuccessful application and/or interview, I doubted myself more. The social anxiety side of me also has a tendency to ask the question "What if now that I'm here, everyone around me realizes that I don't belong and shouldn't have been allowed to come in the first place?" My shakiest moments as a musician this summer have been plagued by this question.
The choir I joined this summer has often brought that question to my mind. Despite the very welcoming members, I constantly wonder if I'm really good enough. I wonder if I'm blending in. I wonder if I'm learning quickly enough. As our concert approaches, I've had more than one panic attack about whether I'll be performance-ready in time (which, conveniently enough, generally happens when I've just pulled out my music to practice, halting any potential progress I could make). When I had a complete breakdown after a rough rehearsal last night (personally rough, the rest of the group sounded awesome) and proceeded to express my frustration with myself via Facebook (because that's what I do sometimes), I was surprised at the high level of affirmation and encouragement I got from some of the other ensemble members.
Taking my first-ever grad school class was no different. Taking the course as a non-degree student who hasn't been officially admitted to the graduate program meant that I came in feeling inferior in the first place. Being jobless with no prospects didn't do anything to help my confidence level either. Throw in my background of never feeling like I fit in and wasn't ever good enough during my undergrad music experience, and I was terrified before the two-week intensive course even started. As things got rolling with a high workload which lead to inadequate sleep (someday I'll learn how to undo this bad habit), I had a massive breakdown not just from feeling overwhelmed but because everyone around me seemed to be keeping up when I felt like I was drowning. Yet when I walked into the music building that morning and near-immediately burst into tears something happened that I didn't expect - I was surrounded by support rather than judgment by classmates and instructors alike. It was one of many surprising boosts in confidence for me that week. It caught me by surprise when one instructor saw the hard-working, successful me behind the quiet me. It caught me by surprise when, as I was freaking out about our final musicianship performance assessment (because my brain was mush and it felt like I couldn't hear anything anymore), my classmates pointed out my lack of confidence, and that it was completely unnecessary because they saw me as being good at what we were doing. It caught me by surprise when nearly all of my coursework met the high expectations that our instructors had set for us with very few adjustments to make throughout (given I worked really hard to get there - and will maybe focus more on adequate sleep than immediate perfection in the future - but at the end I realized just how well I had done). In two weeks time I went from questioning whether I belonged in a graduate level music program to believing that I could excel there when I'm ready to start my Master's degree.
Sometimes I look back at high school and those that I was in choir with. In my grade and those a year above and below me, there were a lot of people, mostly in that top tier of music people, who graduated planning to become music teachers. I'm one of the only ones I know of to actually graduate college with a music education degree and then become a music teacher (though it took me a few years to actually land a music job). If you went back to high school and told people that I would be one of the few to actually become a music teacher, I don't think they would have believed you (except my Speech class who, when we did an awards ceremony for our special occasion speeches, declared that 10 years from now I would be a choir teacher).
I've been the little fish in a big pond for a long time, so long that I barely remember what it was like to have the confidence of the big fish in the little pond (further clouded by the fact that I was unusually overly-confident for a junior high student). This, probably combined with the whole social anxiety disorder thing, means that, even though I've been determined to live in the big pond, it's been hard to believe that I actually belong there.
For the first time this summer, I have been surrounded by elite musicians and music teachers, and I have been met with affirmation. I've been surrounded by music people who see value in me in being another music person and who want me to be part of their group. It still catches me by surprise each time that my ability as a musician and a music teacher is affirmed, but I'm getting better at accepting the compliments and affirmations, trying to hold on to them each time my confidence starts to waver, striving each day to build that same belief inside myself.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Mental Health Month: Stigma Free
May 2016 is Mental Health Month. The big campaign by National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) this year is to be "Stigma Free." It's becoming more and more evident in our country that those suffering from mental health disorders often do not get the care that they need, and one of the top reasons for this is the associated stigma. We've come a long way in the way that we treat people who battle mental illness, but there are lots of things that remain. Someone who suffers from a mental health disorder is easily labeled as crazy or insane or incompetent. People who admit to seeing a therapist or psychologist are seen as foolish for paying someone to listen to their problems or weak for not being able to figure out life for themselves. Medications are seen as a toxic crutch. I know this not only from walking alongside others in their journeys but because I've experienced it myself.
A year ago I was about a month out of having spent 4 months in intensive outpatient mental health programs; I was nearly done with month 5 of what would become a 7-month medical leave. At the time I was determined to become more involved in mental health advocacy. I had plans to try to write a book about my experiences. I wasn't quite living in the real world, and sometimes that makes you feel overly optimistic about what the future holds.
My optimism wasn't entirely a bad thing. If there doesn't already exist enough stigma surrounding mental health disorders, the feeling gets worse when you have to take a long-term medical leave to deal with it and when you spend time in intensive outpatient programs (though at least I prevented the inpatient stay that likely would have been only months or weeks down the line had I not left when I did). By the time I left on leave, I felt like all the decision-makers at my school saw me as an incompetent liability whose anxiety disorders made me unqualified to be a teacher (panic attacks in the principal's office and before any meeting with department colleagues did not help this). Entering into a treatment program made me feel like I should be separated from the world, unworthy of being allowed to be around "normal" people. It took me a long time to get over those feelings, so it's a good thing that a year ago I was feeling determined to live above the stigma.
Then I had to reenter the real world. Making the decision to start working again was one of the most terrifying things I had ever done; choosing to return to what I now know is my life's vocation and calling was especially scary given that all but a handful of people I had worked with at my last school were trying to convince me that I wasn't cut out to be a teacher. When I started my work as a Math Corps tutor, I was afraid to share my previous experience as a math teacher because it meant explaining why I hadn't taken one of the many always-available math teaching positions. I came up with the blanket "health problems caused by work-related stress" and hoped that no one would ask further, and I only shared that if asked specifically.
This is how I know that stigma still exists - if my medical leave had been caused by a physical health issue, even if it was stress-induced, it wouldn't feel so incriminating to share. To admit mental health problems is to admit weakness, incompetence, and insanity. Some people even get more harsh in professions such as mine that require caring for others - some would declare that I am unfit to work with children because of my anxiety disorder, that I will somehow infect or hurt them, which is far from the truth, but the perception still exists among some groups.
I know that stigma still exists because of how I interact with potential and relatively new friends and colleagues. I always talk about having taught high school math for 3 years, even though I know that the 3rd one I only taught through November. I talk about doctor's appointments when I'm really going to see my psychologist (though she does have a doctorate in psychology). When I have bad anxiety stretches (frequently during a stressful/overwhelming week or when I haven't gotten enough sleep) I talk about rough mornings when what I mean is that my anxiety was so bad that I struggled to get out of bed or spent the morning in tears, and I talk about rough nights when what I mean is that my anxiety was so bad that I couldn't function enough to eat or do work for school or decided to go to sleep insanely early because at least when I'm asleep I'm not anxious. When people dare to ask further details about last year's medical leave, and I'm honest about the mental health issues (because I try not to outright lie even though I skate around the truth), each following moment goes in slow motion as I wonder how they'll react when they see the real me. I live each day wearing a mask wondering if it will ever be safe to take it off, if I dare share my secret. Where social media has always been my outlet, the place where I share what I struggle to say out loud, I've found as I reentered the real world this past year that each time I gain a new Facebook friend, I shy further away from sharing anything mental health related in fear that as I finally learn to make friends, I'll manage to scare them away with my baggage or find one more person who sees me as less for it.
I know that I don't need to share everything with everyone, but to me my social anxiety disorder is part of my identity. Most of the therapists I worked with last year would probably be disappointed to hear me say that my anxiety is part of my identity, but to me it is being truthful. My social anxiety does not define me, but it is a part of me, and, at least for now, I don't want to be rid of it because of how it connects me to others and gives me experience to fight the stigma.
You see, as far as people with a mental health disorder go, I've managed to remain fairly functional. In my entire education, the lowest final grade I've gotten in a term is a B+. I survived 2.5 years of teaching with social anxiety disorder (when a counselor at my first school thought it was admirable that I had managed to become a teacher at all). My family and I have had some growing pains while we've learned to walk this journey together, but they've always been as supportive as humanly possible (I say humanly because there are days we falter). Less than a year after essentially leaving a job at one school, I had found a job at another, and, for the most part, I've thrived. When I have a bad day or bad days, I bounce back more easily and more quickly. I'm making new friends and gradually learning to believe that when I like other people, they like me back.
Others that I've met in the past year have often had more reasons to be affected by the stigma surrounding mental health than I have. I've met people who've been in and out of the hospital over the years, people who have been unable to hold a job, people who have had to work to get and stay sober when substance abuse was the only effective way they could find to cope with their mental illness, people who have had to deal with the fallout of suicide attempts (because as much as our society doesn't want to see anyone commit suicide, we treat those who think about it or attempt it as "other" or "different" or plenty of other judgement-filled words).
I'm one of the lucky ones - 7 months of medical leave (including 4 months in treatment programs), another 2 months of being unemployed, and I found a job, found a church, found some friends, and, most days at least, am coping pretty will with losing both job and church in a very short period of time. While I'm doing well, as I've pulled my life back into what would be considered "normal," I've lived in fear of this dark spot on my past (and sometimes present) that would take away my badge of normalcy. That fear alone is evidence to me that the stigma still exists.
So since this is Mental Health Month, I choose to live above the stigma. I choose to be transparent, to share my struggles past and present to help the world to understand not only me but people who are like me, especially those who have not fared as well. I choose to trust that when I dare to share my struggles, my friends will become allies. I choose to be stigma free.
A year ago I was about a month out of having spent 4 months in intensive outpatient mental health programs; I was nearly done with month 5 of what would become a 7-month medical leave. At the time I was determined to become more involved in mental health advocacy. I had plans to try to write a book about my experiences. I wasn't quite living in the real world, and sometimes that makes you feel overly optimistic about what the future holds.
My optimism wasn't entirely a bad thing. If there doesn't already exist enough stigma surrounding mental health disorders, the feeling gets worse when you have to take a long-term medical leave to deal with it and when you spend time in intensive outpatient programs (though at least I prevented the inpatient stay that likely would have been only months or weeks down the line had I not left when I did). By the time I left on leave, I felt like all the decision-makers at my school saw me as an incompetent liability whose anxiety disorders made me unqualified to be a teacher (panic attacks in the principal's office and before any meeting with department colleagues did not help this). Entering into a treatment program made me feel like I should be separated from the world, unworthy of being allowed to be around "normal" people. It took me a long time to get over those feelings, so it's a good thing that a year ago I was feeling determined to live above the stigma.
Then I had to reenter the real world. Making the decision to start working again was one of the most terrifying things I had ever done; choosing to return to what I now know is my life's vocation and calling was especially scary given that all but a handful of people I had worked with at my last school were trying to convince me that I wasn't cut out to be a teacher. When I started my work as a Math Corps tutor, I was afraid to share my previous experience as a math teacher because it meant explaining why I hadn't taken one of the many always-available math teaching positions. I came up with the blanket "health problems caused by work-related stress" and hoped that no one would ask further, and I only shared that if asked specifically.
This is how I know that stigma still exists - if my medical leave had been caused by a physical health issue, even if it was stress-induced, it wouldn't feel so incriminating to share. To admit mental health problems is to admit weakness, incompetence, and insanity. Some people even get more harsh in professions such as mine that require caring for others - some would declare that I am unfit to work with children because of my anxiety disorder, that I will somehow infect or hurt them, which is far from the truth, but the perception still exists among some groups.
I know that stigma still exists because of how I interact with potential and relatively new friends and colleagues. I always talk about having taught high school math for 3 years, even though I know that the 3rd one I only taught through November. I talk about doctor's appointments when I'm really going to see my psychologist (though she does have a doctorate in psychology). When I have bad anxiety stretches (frequently during a stressful/overwhelming week or when I haven't gotten enough sleep) I talk about rough mornings when what I mean is that my anxiety was so bad that I struggled to get out of bed or spent the morning in tears, and I talk about rough nights when what I mean is that my anxiety was so bad that I couldn't function enough to eat or do work for school or decided to go to sleep insanely early because at least when I'm asleep I'm not anxious. When people dare to ask further details about last year's medical leave, and I'm honest about the mental health issues (because I try not to outright lie even though I skate around the truth), each following moment goes in slow motion as I wonder how they'll react when they see the real me. I live each day wearing a mask wondering if it will ever be safe to take it off, if I dare share my secret. Where social media has always been my outlet, the place where I share what I struggle to say out loud, I've found as I reentered the real world this past year that each time I gain a new Facebook friend, I shy further away from sharing anything mental health related in fear that as I finally learn to make friends, I'll manage to scare them away with my baggage or find one more person who sees me as less for it.
I know that I don't need to share everything with everyone, but to me my social anxiety disorder is part of my identity. Most of the therapists I worked with last year would probably be disappointed to hear me say that my anxiety is part of my identity, but to me it is being truthful. My social anxiety does not define me, but it is a part of me, and, at least for now, I don't want to be rid of it because of how it connects me to others and gives me experience to fight the stigma.
You see, as far as people with a mental health disorder go, I've managed to remain fairly functional. In my entire education, the lowest final grade I've gotten in a term is a B+. I survived 2.5 years of teaching with social anxiety disorder (when a counselor at my first school thought it was admirable that I had managed to become a teacher at all). My family and I have had some growing pains while we've learned to walk this journey together, but they've always been as supportive as humanly possible (I say humanly because there are days we falter). Less than a year after essentially leaving a job at one school, I had found a job at another, and, for the most part, I've thrived. When I have a bad day or bad days, I bounce back more easily and more quickly. I'm making new friends and gradually learning to believe that when I like other people, they like me back.
Others that I've met in the past year have often had more reasons to be affected by the stigma surrounding mental health than I have. I've met people who've been in and out of the hospital over the years, people who have been unable to hold a job, people who have had to work to get and stay sober when substance abuse was the only effective way they could find to cope with their mental illness, people who have had to deal with the fallout of suicide attempts (because as much as our society doesn't want to see anyone commit suicide, we treat those who think about it or attempt it as "other" or "different" or plenty of other judgement-filled words).
I'm one of the lucky ones - 7 months of medical leave (including 4 months in treatment programs), another 2 months of being unemployed, and I found a job, found a church, found some friends, and, most days at least, am coping pretty will with losing both job and church in a very short period of time. While I'm doing well, as I've pulled my life back into what would be considered "normal," I've lived in fear of this dark spot on my past (and sometimes present) that would take away my badge of normalcy. That fear alone is evidence to me that the stigma still exists.
So since this is Mental Health Month, I choose to live above the stigma. I choose to be transparent, to share my struggles past and present to help the world to understand not only me but people who are like me, especially those who have not fared as well. I choose to trust that when I dare to share my struggles, my friends will become allies. I choose to be stigma free.
Friday, March 11, 2016
To My North Heights Family, I Thank You
Two days from now, my church will hold its final worship service. Days later, the building will close its doors, and, come Holy Week, the remnant of a divided congregation will disperse. Having been at North Heights for only a little over a year (consistently, at least), I'm sad to lose the worshiping family that I've had in that time (though I know that the family will stay connected even after location separates us). But I also find myself thankful that I was given the time that I was to be part of this family and for all the ways in which they've helped me to grow.
I first visited North Heights about two years ago the week before Palm Sunday. I came in a deeply broken person, attempting to cope with social anxiety and depression while working in a toxic environment and trying to figure out how to maintain a relationship with God after feeling like I'd been betrayed by nearly every faith community I'd been a part of since high school. When I first visited, I hoped to find a place where I could get lost in the crowd and just worship until it felt safe to actually be part of a faith community.
I don't remember much about my first visit, other than crying almost the whole way through worship (thank you, social anxiety), but it must have been a positive enough experience to convince me to keep coming in the following weeks. In those weeks I learned that one of the pastors was also a psychologist, and in the way he preached, I knew that in him I had at least one person who would not condemn me for the symptoms of my mental health disorders as other Christian friends and leaders had done in the past. I remember feeling the attitude of worship, more than just going through the motions, in the entire congregation. I remember experiencing the marketplace scene of the Easter production on Palm Sunday and for the first time understanding why Palm Sunday was such a big deal. I remember thinking "This is the church with a Lutheran foundation and non-denominational worship that I've been looking for." Then, my hopes to get lost in the crowd were dashed as a member recognized me as a new face in the crowd and insisted that I joined him for brunch (in the mostly friendly way, I assure you), but I, being afraid of people in general (and church people in particular, at the time), talked my way out of it and didn't return until the following February. (A part of me is sad that I lost all that time, but as our time comes to a close, I'm trying not to waste it on regrets.)
Once my mental health started to get back on track the following year (and once my parents left my childhood church), it felt time to step out on my own again, and I returned to North Heights. A person much more comfortable with myself than I had been during my previous visits, and a person who was no longer so closed off to the world that she had unintentionally closed God out as well, I allowed myself to fully worship for the first time in years, possibly ever. Having grown up in a fairly traditional Lutheran church, I didn't feel comfortable raising my hands or moving around quite yet, but it was refreshing to be among others that worshiped freely. For the first time in worship, I remember literally feeling the Holy Spirit flow through the congregation. I remember learning to worship while listening as the Praise & Worship choir sang during the offering; it's the first time I ever heard a church choir sing that didn't feel like a performance. I left exhilarated that day, and I kept coming back. Despite the fact that I hadn't even had a conversation with anyone, I knew that I was home.
As I continued my journey at North Heights, I began to grow. I prayed more often. I actually committed to reading my Bible because, for the first time in my life, the majority of the people around me had much deeper Biblical knowledge than I do (there have previously been individuals, but not an entire faith community). I added learning to read in Greek to my bucket list because it turns out that if you look at parts of the New Testament in its original Greek, you gain a completely different perspective on scripture that you've heard dozens of times.
At North Heights, for the first time in my life, my faith was actually challenged. My picture of God completely changed. I grew up in a more traditional Lutheran church, where we had a tendency to put God in this safe little box that we could mostly understand and left all that spiritual stuff to the Baptists/Evangelicals/Non-denominationals/etc. In the past year, I've been challenged to let God out of the safe little box and be present in the world in all His unfathomable power. I've been challenged to see that the Holy Spirit is just as alive and moving in the world today as it was in the days of the early church. I've been challenged to love my neighbor in new ways as I am constantly reminded that our war is not with flesh and blood but with Satan and his forces of darkness. I've been challenged to live in bold faith and trust that God will provide and that God has a plan, even when none of that makes sense to me. I've been challenged to not just show up at church but to take it with me when I leave. Even in these last days, I've been challenged to look at scripture that I'd heard so many times I'd become numb to it in new and meaningful ways.
While I've always felt somehow part of the family at North Heights, I was blessed with the opportunity to make it more official when I joined both the Praise & Worship Choir and Chorale. Though I continue to be my shy, quiet self, I have always felt a part of things, always felt loved. When I have big prayer requests or praise reports to share, I look forward to the opportunity to share them with my choir families. I've sometimes given up traditions and sanity to continue to sing with my choir families this year because they keep me connected and have held me accountable (whether they realize that or not).
When I first heard rumblings of division at North Heights, I never imagined that the journey would end with the church's closing. I grew up at a church with plenty of issues, but they remain open (though have faced budget issues and have cut staff in the past). I find myself in a weird place in all of this as I joined the family so late in the life of the congregation, and I find myself on the outskirts of conflict, though I've felt its ripples. I don't know much, but what I do know, and what I've seen, brings me hope. I've seen Jesus live up to His promise that He would be present wherever two or three are gathered. I've seen a congregation worship with their entire hearts, souls, and minds. I've seen people who care about each other, support each other, and challenge each other to live their faith. I've seen people who have prayerfully remained obedient to God, even when it hasn't been easy. I've seen a community that God has prepared to exit the doors of the building and be the Church in the world.
Just because the building is closing its doors, doesn't mean that there is no Church. Just because we are not all worshiping at the same place does not mean that we are not part of the Church body. Looking at all that God has challenged us to do in recent months - to trust Him to do much with our little, to make bold moves, to take the things we do inside the church walls like pray and worship and provide for each other - what seemed like lessons that were preparing to rebuild our church now appear like they were more likely intended to be lessons to prepare us to help build the greater Church. I see the amazing things that God has done in and through the people of North Heights in the last year, and I am still in awe. We each take a piece of that with us as we leave. I'm sad that this journey is coming to a close, but I'm also so excited to see how God takes each and every one of us at North Heights and uses us to go into the world.
Two weeks ago when we learned of a major staffing change at North Heights, I found myself praying, "Here I am, Lord. Send me." I didn't imagine that His mission for me might be at another church, but I know that he has prepared me for it, wherever I land. For that, I thank God for bringing me to North Heights and preparing me; through Him I am a stronger, more faithful person than when I walked it. But I also know that God can't do that work without His people following His call, and for that, my North Heights family, I thank you.
I first visited North Heights about two years ago the week before Palm Sunday. I came in a deeply broken person, attempting to cope with social anxiety and depression while working in a toxic environment and trying to figure out how to maintain a relationship with God after feeling like I'd been betrayed by nearly every faith community I'd been a part of since high school. When I first visited, I hoped to find a place where I could get lost in the crowd and just worship until it felt safe to actually be part of a faith community.
I don't remember much about my first visit, other than crying almost the whole way through worship (thank you, social anxiety), but it must have been a positive enough experience to convince me to keep coming in the following weeks. In those weeks I learned that one of the pastors was also a psychologist, and in the way he preached, I knew that in him I had at least one person who would not condemn me for the symptoms of my mental health disorders as other Christian friends and leaders had done in the past. I remember feeling the attitude of worship, more than just going through the motions, in the entire congregation. I remember experiencing the marketplace scene of the Easter production on Palm Sunday and for the first time understanding why Palm Sunday was such a big deal. I remember thinking "This is the church with a Lutheran foundation and non-denominational worship that I've been looking for." Then, my hopes to get lost in the crowd were dashed as a member recognized me as a new face in the crowd and insisted that I joined him for brunch (in the mostly friendly way, I assure you), but I, being afraid of people in general (and church people in particular, at the time), talked my way out of it and didn't return until the following February. (A part of me is sad that I lost all that time, but as our time comes to a close, I'm trying not to waste it on regrets.)
Once my mental health started to get back on track the following year (and once my parents left my childhood church), it felt time to step out on my own again, and I returned to North Heights. A person much more comfortable with myself than I had been during my previous visits, and a person who was no longer so closed off to the world that she had unintentionally closed God out as well, I allowed myself to fully worship for the first time in years, possibly ever. Having grown up in a fairly traditional Lutheran church, I didn't feel comfortable raising my hands or moving around quite yet, but it was refreshing to be among others that worshiped freely. For the first time in worship, I remember literally feeling the Holy Spirit flow through the congregation. I remember learning to worship while listening as the Praise & Worship choir sang during the offering; it's the first time I ever heard a church choir sing that didn't feel like a performance. I left exhilarated that day, and I kept coming back. Despite the fact that I hadn't even had a conversation with anyone, I knew that I was home.
As I continued my journey at North Heights, I began to grow. I prayed more often. I actually committed to reading my Bible because, for the first time in my life, the majority of the people around me had much deeper Biblical knowledge than I do (there have previously been individuals, but not an entire faith community). I added learning to read in Greek to my bucket list because it turns out that if you look at parts of the New Testament in its original Greek, you gain a completely different perspective on scripture that you've heard dozens of times.
At North Heights, for the first time in my life, my faith was actually challenged. My picture of God completely changed. I grew up in a more traditional Lutheran church, where we had a tendency to put God in this safe little box that we could mostly understand and left all that spiritual stuff to the Baptists/Evangelicals/Non-denominationals/etc. In the past year, I've been challenged to let God out of the safe little box and be present in the world in all His unfathomable power. I've been challenged to see that the Holy Spirit is just as alive and moving in the world today as it was in the days of the early church. I've been challenged to love my neighbor in new ways as I am constantly reminded that our war is not with flesh and blood but with Satan and his forces of darkness. I've been challenged to live in bold faith and trust that God will provide and that God has a plan, even when none of that makes sense to me. I've been challenged to not just show up at church but to take it with me when I leave. Even in these last days, I've been challenged to look at scripture that I'd heard so many times I'd become numb to it in new and meaningful ways.
While I've always felt somehow part of the family at North Heights, I was blessed with the opportunity to make it more official when I joined both the Praise & Worship Choir and Chorale. Though I continue to be my shy, quiet self, I have always felt a part of things, always felt loved. When I have big prayer requests or praise reports to share, I look forward to the opportunity to share them with my choir families. I've sometimes given up traditions and sanity to continue to sing with my choir families this year because they keep me connected and have held me accountable (whether they realize that or not).
When I first heard rumblings of division at North Heights, I never imagined that the journey would end with the church's closing. I grew up at a church with plenty of issues, but they remain open (though have faced budget issues and have cut staff in the past). I find myself in a weird place in all of this as I joined the family so late in the life of the congregation, and I find myself on the outskirts of conflict, though I've felt its ripples. I don't know much, but what I do know, and what I've seen, brings me hope. I've seen Jesus live up to His promise that He would be present wherever two or three are gathered. I've seen a congregation worship with their entire hearts, souls, and minds. I've seen people who care about each other, support each other, and challenge each other to live their faith. I've seen people who have prayerfully remained obedient to God, even when it hasn't been easy. I've seen a community that God has prepared to exit the doors of the building and be the Church in the world.
Just because the building is closing its doors, doesn't mean that there is no Church. Just because we are not all worshiping at the same place does not mean that we are not part of the Church body. Looking at all that God has challenged us to do in recent months - to trust Him to do much with our little, to make bold moves, to take the things we do inside the church walls like pray and worship and provide for each other - what seemed like lessons that were preparing to rebuild our church now appear like they were more likely intended to be lessons to prepare us to help build the greater Church. I see the amazing things that God has done in and through the people of North Heights in the last year, and I am still in awe. We each take a piece of that with us as we leave. I'm sad that this journey is coming to a close, but I'm also so excited to see how God takes each and every one of us at North Heights and uses us to go into the world.
Two weeks ago when we learned of a major staffing change at North Heights, I found myself praying, "Here I am, Lord. Send me." I didn't imagine that His mission for me might be at another church, but I know that he has prepared me for it, wherever I land. For that, I thank God for bringing me to North Heights and preparing me; through Him I am a stronger, more faithful person than when I walked it. But I also know that God can't do that work without His people following His call, and for that, my North Heights family, I thank you.
"Unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains alone, but if it dies it bears much fruit." ~ John 12:24
"'For I know the plans I have for you,' says the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'" ~ Jeremiah 29:11
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