You Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone

I have Joni Mitchell and "Big Yellow Taxi" to thank for the earworm that's running through my head right now: "Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone."

Isn't it the truth, though?

Except that in my particular case, in this moment, it's sort of the opposite. I can recognize the gift of what I've been given precisely because it's been absent for so long leading up to this point.

If I hadn't come from the background that I do, if I hadn't come to ministry from this particular perspective, if I shared that call story that I've heard so very often from my male colleagues in ministry over the years ("I didn't want to go into ministry, but they tapped me on the shoulder and told me that I should be a pastor, and eventually I gave in to their encouragements"), I'm not sure that I would have such a distinct sense of the gift of this moment.

This Sunday, at the end of our worship service, I will be licensed toward ordination.

It's a process in the Mennonite Church with a title that doesn't exactly make one's heart beat faster in excitement and anticipation.

But it's such a tremendous gift for me.

And here's why:

It was nineteen years ago that I first sensed that God might be calling me to a leadership role within the church. Nineteen years. That is just barely less than half my lifetime at this point. I still remember the moment, the exact words I heard God speak, the disbelief of it all. I well remember the process of making sense of the moment that unfolded from there over a period of years, the ups and downs along the way.

But, as a woman in a church conference that is still struggling with the question of women in ministry leadership, for most of the past nineteen years I've had to do the lion's share of that processing and discernment on my own.

The age old wisdom of the church says that there are two aspects to discerning a call to ministry: the "inner call" that is sensed by the individual being called to ministry, and the "outer call" of the community of faith who together with that individual discern their gifts and characters and suitability for leadership in the church.

But, in a tradition where my gender made my suitability for ministry fundamentally questionable regardless of my story or the particulars of who I am, I have been left largely to my own devices to struggle with the inner call that I was discerning, and how to reconcile that with the mixed messages that I received from the larger church.

Even when I went through the ministry credentialing process in the past, the memory that rises up of that experience is of one of the men on the committee that interviewed me asking whether I might consider going into the world of academics. My sense is that had less to do with my story or my particular gifts, and more to do with the fact that the church has just never quite been sure what to do with me. It wasn't exactly overwhelming affirmation of what I understood of the kind of work that God was calling me to.

But now... this act of "licensing of a minister toward ordination" is my first taste of the truth of what I've always believed in my heart to be true, that I'd never fully feel like my discernment of God's leading would be complete without the church actively entering into this discernment process with me.

It's a process that was initiated by the church, not by me.

And the period of licensing is a period in which the congregation is invited to actively participate in the process of discerning my suitability for ongoing pastoral ministry along with me.

The church has never given me the gift of taking my sense of call to ministry seriously like this before. They are not brushing me off, or nudging me to consider other directions. They have already interviewed me, listened carefully to my story, taken my sense of call seriously, and offered accountability to me as a leader.

And the licensing on Sunday will signal once again that they are taking this discernment process seriously.

That is not something that I have the luxury of taking for granted. Because I know what it's like when it's gone, and so I have a profound sense of the gift of what I've got now that I probably would not have otherwise.

All of which is to say, there are many of you who have so faithfully been companions on this journey over the past nineteen years leading up to this moment, and many of you who continue to walk with me going forward. Who have encouraged, prayed, cried with me, held me while I cried, celebrated the milestones, listened to the struggles. Who have been my community and have carried me to this point. I'm so grateful for all of you.

And to the church family who are giving me the gift of their companionship in the journey in this season, I want you to know the value of the gift that you're giving, and the significance of this process that can seem like a formality or a series of hoops to be jumped through. It's not.

It's a passing milestone, in many ways, but in my heart it's the fulfillment of a longing nineteen years in the making. And I just wanted you all to know that.

Because sometimes if we just see what's on the surface, we can miss the gift that lies beneath.

And that would be a shame!

The Healing Power of Nightmares

Fun fact: In grade 12, I wrote a research essay on nightmares, as a follow-up to our reading of The Lord of the Flies in English class. My grade was 99%. I remember this vividly, because my class earned a stern lecture for our overall lacklustre performance on our research essays, resulting in me tearfully confessing to my mother later that evening that we'd not handed in work that lived up to our teacher's expectations of us. My mom had to explain to me that the teacher probably wasn't speaking to me so much as to some of my classmates.

I've always had a tender heart...

Regardless, nightmares. What I remember of that paper was that one theory on why people have nightmares is that bad dreams serve as a way for our subconscious minds to process hard feelings that might be too uncomfortable for us to process during our waking hours, and that they therefore have healing potential.

It was a grade 12 research essay in the days before the internet, in a small high school with an even smaller library upon which to base this research, so take that for what it's worth.

I had a nightmare this week-end.

All I recall is that in my dream some men from "the church" decided that I should be removed from my job immediately.

Even worse, they had exercised their power somehow in order to ensure that I would never be allowed to serve in a pastoral role again. Anywhere. Ever.

In my dream, it was awful, and I couldn't imagine what I should do next--but I wasn't shocked.

It has since served as a reminder to me that, however happy I am in my current pastoral role, however satisfying I find my work and however generous and warm my congregation, some wounds just take time to heal.

So, for all of you reading this who are healing, in whatever way:

May you be patient with the slow and steady work of healing. May you find companions for the journey who are aware of their own woundings, and who are not frightened by yours. May you find joy in the moment, which doesn't negate the hard stuff but which comes alongside it and coexists with it.

And may you find yourself held by Love, who sees your wounds and honours them with her oh, so tender touch.