I don't know how to be a role model

This post is a love letter to the students who were there for me when I didn't know how to be there for them.

Congratulations!

If you handed me a piece of paper and asked me to describe my ideal job, it would closely resemble the position I was hired for in 2021. Having volunteered in church ministry since the age of 12, I was thrilled to finally be PAID for it! The role was substantial, yet incredible. I had the opportunity to work with students ranging from 18 years old to PreK. My responsibilities included teaching Sunday School to our youngest attendees, sharing quirky Bible stories with Middle Schoolers, and encouraging High Schoolers to participate in games they weren't particularly interested in. It was creative, enjoyable, and immensely fulfilling. I recall the week before meeting the students for the first time. I was sitting outside on the porch, savoring a warm summer evening. Worship music played from the small speaker on my phone resting on my ankles, while I watched fireflies flicker in my yard. I closed my eyes and said a prayer. I prayed that I was the right person for this job. I prayed that I would be able to help the students in some way (spiritually, emotionally, physically). As silly as it sounds, I prayed that they would like me. But mostly, it was a prayer of thanks.

"Thank you for this job. Thank you for these students. Thank you for trusting me with their hearts. Thank you."

A rhythm

The job began like any other, with a mountain of paperwork, countless signatures, and a list of tasks. After my first day, I felt both incredibly overwhelmed and incredibly excited. Once I met the students, my excitement only grew. It took a few months, but I eventually settled into a routine. I became familiar with my daily office tasks, and it no longer felt unusual to text high schoolers or greet a middle schooler I happened to see at Starbucks. Life became perfectly ordinary and comfortable.

I loved all my students, but I must admit I had a particular fondness for my high schoolers. That year, the students had lost three fellow classmates; two were deaths by suicide. I realized quickly that I would do anything to make these kids happy. I would do anything to offer them a space of joy and peace, even if it was just 2 hours once a month on a Sunday night. Sometimes that looked like making homemade milkshakes. Sometimes that looked like throwing glass plates in the church parking lot while wearing giant safety goggles, but most of the time, it just looked like talking to them. And talking to them was my favorite.

A text

I told them first. A few years into my role, I had fully established myself. Most of the students had developed a strong connection with me. They knew my then-husband, and many of them followed me on social media. Because of this, it seemed right to tell them about the divorce first. I wanted them to hear it directly from me before coming across it on social media.

"Hey friends. I know some of you follow me on social media. You're about to see a pretty personal post. My husband and I are separating. It's hard and sad, but we are both okay. There are certain aspects of my personal life that I don't share with you, but this is a pretty big deal. It seemed appropriate that you all should know. Love you guys."

Divorce Flowers

"I will babysit PJ for free."

"Want to meet for coffee?"

"We wanted to get you flowers...but then our parent's said that was weird and divorce flowers aren't really a thing."

"Want to get lunch? We can use the church credy card?"

"Are you okay?"

"You're going to be fine. You have W rizz because you're pretty."

"I'm sorry."

"You're brave."

"I love you."

Deep Breathes

"I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't"....a knock on the door. I wipe away the tears, quickly run to the bathroom to make sure there is no mascara under my eyes. Inhale, exhale. Smile. "Hey guys! Welcome to church."

The panic attacks began right after the decision to divorce was made and intensified when my husband moved out. My life seemed to be crumbling around me. While my world had come to a halt, everyone else's continued, so I had to keep moving forward. Keep moving forward.

Masking

mask·ing /ˈmæs.kɪŋ/

verb

Definition:

The act of concealing one’s true emotions, struggles, or mental state in order to maintain a socially acceptable appearance of being “okay.” Common in work or church settings, masking often involves putting on a façade of positivity, calm, or competence to meet external expectations, avoid judgment, or preserve relationships, even when internally experiencing stress, anxiety, or distress.

One Sunday, I found out my grandfather had passed away two minutes before church started. I stood in front of the entire congregation making jokes and telling Bible stories to children. I made it through the service with a big grin plastered on my face. I sang songs, played games, gave out countless high-fives and cried the second I got home and closed my front door. Masking was an art, pain was the paint, and I was the brush.

Lament

It's getting harder. The panic attacks are more frequent now. I'm not getting much sleep. My vision is blurred.

Inhale, exhale.

What if I never find love again?

Inhale, exhale.

How did this become my life?

Inhale, exhale.

No, no, no, this isn't real. This is a nightmare. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

Inhale, exhale.

I don't know how to be a single mom, I don't know how to do it all alone. I don't want this, I don't want this, I don't want this. Do you hear me? I don't want this! How could you?! I gave you everything. I did everything the right way. How could you leave me like this? Why aren't you talking to me? Are you even real? You better be real because if not I have wasted my entire existence on you. Do you hear me? How could you?

Inhale, exhale.

I did everything you told me to do. Why did you leave me? Why did he leave me? Please come back.

Inhale, exhale.

Help me. Amen.

I don't know how to be a role model

I start canceling church events. I haven't figured out childcare for PJ since becoming a single mom, and I'm so, so tired. I don't know how to minister to teens and kids when I'm falling apart. How do I tell them to trust a God that I don't trust right now? How can I be there for them when it's so hard to brush my teeth in the morning? When it's so hard to eat? When it's so hard to exist?

One night, I decide to remove the mask. The students come to the church for the annual Christmas party. They ask me if I started dating since the divorce, and for some reason, instead of telling them it's none of their business, I say "yes." I tell them a story about how I have zero "rizz" because I performed a magic trick for a boy. They laugh, I laugh, and for a moment, I feel better. I'm smiling, and it's not forced. It's real.

I'll admit I overshared BIG time that year with my students (given this blog...I guess that's a personality trait of mine.) I made mistakes. I didn't know how to wear the mask anymore. I just wanted to be a normal single woman navigating dating apps and googling "what to wear on bowling date."

I didn't know how to be their youth leader; I just knew how to be me...and hoped that was enough.

It was.

I look back on that year and although I may not have been perfect and I was definitely not the ideal role model, my students were. They made me feel normal. They made me feel happy. They made me feel seen. All of a sudden they were the ones ministering to me. The students I once treated to lunch and listened to during their heartbreaks were now inviting me for coffee to hear about mine. Those I hoped would like me were now lingering at my house long after youth group ended, simply to chat and laugh. They would arrive at my place unexpectedly with ice cream, bring me flowers, and write me notes. They introduced me to Chappell Roan during Mission Trips and shared late-night fast food with me on air mattresses. It was a ministry of love. I do not know if I deserved it, but I am forever humbled by it.

My reputation's never been worse

Working at a church while going through a divorce is an incredibly difficult thing to navigate. I still remember sitting down with my boss to tell him about my separation. I wondered if I might lose my job. Upon my asking, I was met with a compassionate stare and a shake of the head. "No...the only thing people at church will feel is an overwhelming need to love and care for you."

It's hard to pretend you're okay when you're not. It's hard to be authentic but not too authentic. It's hard to know where the line is between congregant and friend. It's difficult to overlook questions when you know the answers would have a room full of teenagers you care about laughing hysterically. It's hard to show up Sunday morning when you were up crying all night on Saturday. It's hard to pray when you have nothing nice to say.

Ministry is challenging, but spending time with my students wasn't.

A love letter

To my students,

Now I'm speaking directly to you. I am grateful for your love, laughter, and support during one of the toughest periods of my life. Meeting all of you has been one of the greatest blessings and privileges of my life. From the youngest members giving me extra cuddles, to throwing soda cans with my Middle Schoolers, to falling on the floor laughing with my High Schoolers, each of you holds significance. Each of you made a meaningful impact on my life and my son's life that year. I love you all deeply.

At a time when I was probably a really bad role model, you just let me be myself and demonstrated that sometimes just being me is enough.

This one was for you.

xoxo Amber