Thank you

I used to be a youth minister. But God delivered me.

I’m just joking, sort of. God led me into youth ministry — at age 17 (me, not God), I felt God telling me he was going to make me a minister to youth, but not forever, just for a time and he’d let me know when that time was up — and God led me out of youth ministry. At age 27, God told me he was shifting me to a different type of ministry — as a pastor. 

I became a pastor for the first time at age 30. I’d served as an associate pastor in the interim there. I was at that church 6 years, 2.5 months. Then I became pastor of a different church in a different state, and stayed there 5 years and 3 months. 

I’d been eager to pastor a church in an area I considered a “real mission field,” where I had the financial security of a full-time position but had the freedom and opportunity to reach the lost, including those who weren’t accepted by or didn’t feel comfortable in every church. I practically begged God to send me to this new place and God answered with a gentle, “When times get rough … remember. You asked for this.”

A few specific people at the church hated me. I’m not exaggerating. They hated me and told me so. All these years later and I’m still not sure why. They each told me I was not the person they wanted to hire as pastor. Each of them told me I’d be better off leaving and taking a different kind of job. Each one criticized my wife and children. Each one fought directly and aggressively and ninja-sneakily to discredit me and cause me to quit or be fired. 

In the end, it was pretty much both.

My wife and I separated, my family’s lives were thrown into disarray, I was interviewed by authorities and accused of things I’d never even considered. I was determined not to quit, but when a handful of church leaders asked me to resign, I did so. I said I would give two weeks’ notice on the upcoming Sunday. They said they’d rather I just go sooner … give 10 days’ notice instead … leave at the end of the month.

Simpler that way, they said. The last day of the month was a Wednesday, Halloween. 

The day before was my birthday. 

About a dozen people out of this large church met with me that last night for our last prayer meeting together. Afterward, they presented me with a birthday cake and well wishes. 

It was bittersweet.

I took the day off today. It was to make up for a holiday recently when I had to work. I got some cleaning done, some reading and I finally got caught up on that Netflix series I was so behind on. I’m eager for the next season to start.

But as I sat and read, I found myself nodding off. It’s been a long weekend with nowhere near enough sleep. 

So I laid myself down and quickly was asleep. 

I didn’t rest. My dreams were filled with antagonistic people from my past and from fiction, in situations that frustrated me with everyday problems blown way out of proportion. The mailman had opened my ordered package and confiscated my cigars — he said I didn’t need those things. Some kids were fighting in my front yard — like a bad reenactment of “West Side Story.” My ex-wife (who looked like the dead wife of the main character in the show I’d watched earlier) was building a rather ornate cardboard village for our son’s cats in the den of the house where I spent ages 2-13, and she said we could not talk to each other for 2 days and nights because I’d yelled in anger when all the Rubbermaid food storage containers fell out of the cabinet onto my face. Mechanic Mark — who was currently very relaxed on our yellow tweed coach to my left — in his head-to-toe khaki ensemble and clear safety glasses began to tell me what she “really” meant, and I looked him straight in the eye and pointed at him.

“You don’t get to tell me that, Mark,” I said. “Not you. Not this time. Let her speak.”

I have no idea who Mark was. Mark needs to keep his trap shut.

But that’s the mess of the dream that is still buzzing around in my head. I woke up with uneasiness and confusion. I found myself feeling the same emotions of disappointment, regret, betrayal and shame that I’d felt the night after I drove home alone from a livelihood of pastoral ministry I believed I’d never be able to return to.

There’s so much more I could say about all that, but that’s not what’s important right now.

As I tried to gather my thoughts, my wife texted and asked me to bring her Greek leftovers over to the office for her dinner. On my way out I grabbed our mail from the box. 

At the office, I opened the mail, the most important one first. A letter/card addressed to “Dad” from my 17-year-old daughter, who lives with her mother in another state. 

I have five children — two boys and three girls, ranging from 14 to 24 — and I love each of them with all of my heart. I’m crazy about them.

Bri told me about her straight As and her plans for after graduation, including anticipated scholarships and career goals. She’s so intelligent and “together” and much more mature than I was at that age. I’m proud of her. But I’m more proud because she told me about her spiritual growth and how excited she is that her best friend “gave her life to Christ not long ago. Yay! I prayed so much for that. It made (makes) me so happy.”

She wrote about how much she’s trying to live as a godly example for her and how she hopes she’ll learn from the mistakes Bri makes. 

Wow, I’m proud of her. 

But then she concluded her letter with words she didn’t know I needed so much to hear. 

“Thank you for being a great person & dad.”

“Thank you for being there when I need you, even if you can’t always be here literally.”

“Thanks for being a good role model. I know you aren’t perfect, but I think you lead a pretty good example. Just thank you. Love you.”

Thank you, sweetheart.

Just thank you.