One year ago today:
It’s been hard transitioning back to the US. Three weeks ago we were sleeping in a cinder block room in the middle of the desert in Egypt, listening to wild dogs bark in the street. Three weeks before that we were making smalltalk with our Nigerian Uber driver on our way to church in Cape Town, South Africa. We’ve been wandering abroad for almost two years, but tonight we’re sitting in the parking lot of a giant church building in Arkansas watching our daughters walk toward a crowd of Christian teenagers. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen a crowd of Christian teenagers.
We’ve moved here to Arkansas in part for this very moment. It was gracious of our daughters to embrace our international gallivanting for as long as they did. Now that London’s starting high school we want to return the favor and offer stability. Since we arrived here (a city we chose by spreadsheet), we’ve been visiting two churches every Sunday (there are so many churches here). I struggle to articulate what it is we’ve been looking for (a spirit? THE Spirit?), but whatever it is, it’s been hard to find. After years of worshiping in little local churches in corners of the world where faith is rare and scrappy and courageous and alive, we don’t know what to do in these buildings full of people for whom faith is their culture, tradition, inheritance, and routine.
We wonder if we’ll ever belong.
This past Sunday we tried a new church, the one we’re parked outside right now. After the worship service, Justin said, “This could work.” I nodded. The girls said, “Sure.” So now this is our church (it really can be as easy as that), and our girls are attending their first youth group event.
We drop them off and drive to dinner, praying all the way.
When we return to pick them up, we can tell by the way they’re walking, the night has not been good.
The second both girls are in the car they begin to cry.
You can imagine what happened. Showing up as strangers to a giant party where pretty much everybody there has known everybody there since pre-k can only go so well.
“No one” talked to them other than the youth ministers. They didn’t know what was going on. What to do. Who to talk to. “Everyone” was dressed alike, like it was a costume party and everyone had come in the exact same costume but the Gerhardt girls didn’t get the memo. London says, I don’t even know where to shop for an outfit like that (they’ll find out later: Lululemon). They were all singing at the top of their lungs to this song I’ve never heard before, says Eve (she’ll find out later: Taylor Swift).
We listen and listen as each girl lists each way she’s different from the kids in this group. Our daughters speak in hyperbole (we know that—“everyone” and “no one” are feelings not facts) but also who are we to force a confrontation with the facts when the facts are surely stacked against them? We tell them we’re sorry. We cry a little. We pray. And we wonder, Justin and I both, whether we’ve made the right decision, whether we might as well have moved to Malaysia.
Today:
Tonight we’re sitting in the parking lot of a giant church building in Arkansas watching our daughters walk toward a crowd of Christian teenagers. It’s the same parking lot we sat in a year ago. Same fall semester kick-off event. It’s the same, and it is not the same.
It is not the same, because we have an extra kid in the car. We picked up Eve’s friend Norah on the way. She’s from Norway. Speaks fluent Norwegian. It is not the same, because we do not need to coax the kids out of the car with prayer and blessings. They hop out eager, already blessed, prayers answered. As London and Eve and Norah walk toward the crowd like confident astronauts boarding a rocket, their friend Harper barrels toward them, practically tackling Eve with a hug. Harper will ride on Eve’s back for most of the night. Norah will be slightly annoyed. Eve will be secretly delighted to see her friend Norah a little jealous—proof of love.
When they enter the crowd London will head toward the action with authority. She joined a student leadership team this summer. Now she’s not just a member of this group, she’s responsible for them. She finds a new face, her friend Sophie’s German exchange student, and sticks close by her side as they pack food for hungry families. London’s friend Lila finds her at the packing table and yells, “London! It’s our friend-iversary. I saw you here one year ago tonight. Didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. And now you’re my best friend!” London looks down at her friendship bracelet, the one Sophie bought for her and Lila and Gabriella. Across the room Eve and her crew are less invested in the service project. She’s too busy singing Taylor Swift songs at the top of her lungs.
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How did we get from there to here?
In some ways the fast forward is helpful. It shows you what’s possible. In a year your reality could be much different than the reality you currently inhabit. There’s hope. God does beautiful, impossible things while we wait.
But in other ways skipping the messy middle makes it all feel a bit too easy. Today things are bad; tomorrow they’ll be good. Be patient, and soon you’ll be happy.
Is that even true?
It is. The Gospel is a promise that one day all evil will be overcome, all wrong will be undone, and all darkness will flee at the dawning of eternal light. Christians are a waiting people, called to suffer now in light of a victorious then. Even here and now as we wait for the full expression of the Kingdom we find God breaking in and raining world-defying blessing upon His people. There’s a reason to believe that though today things are bad, tomorrow they’ll be good. Be patient, and soon you’ll be happy.
But also…
The wait feels long (too long), and patience is war.
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For six months taking the girls to cell group was all work and pain and tears. Every Wednesday night we loaded them into the car and drove thirty minutes to the first house, dropped Eve off with 15 other girls her age, and then drove ten minutes down the road to drop off London with another fifteen girls her age at another house. The first night went about as well as their first youth group event did. Maybe worse.
After the tears and the cataloguing of trials, the girls sobered up. London said, “Making friends isn’t ever easy.” Eve said, “If this is where God brought us, I guess we just have to keep showing up.” And so we showed up.
From then on, we spent the drive praying (please give us the gift of belonging) and strategizing (please show us what to do to belong). Justin and I offered scenarios:
What do you do if no one talks to you?
Find someone on the edge of the conversation and ask questions.
What kinds of questions lead to connection?
Questions that encourage people to tell stories about themselves or talk about things they love.
If a girl gives you a dirty look or rolls her eyes at you, what should you do?
Pray for her.
Let it go.
Find someone else to talk to.
Next we’d proffer our best advice:
Don’t answer every question during study time. Give other people room to answer.
Don’t go too personal too quick during prayer request time, but do be authentic and vulnerable.
Be yourself, but also be kind and hospitable.
Be alive. But also don’t be crazy.
Sometimes the advice seemed to work. Many times one or both girls erupted in tears the moment the car door closed.
Making friends is never easy.
If this is were God brought us, we’ll just have to keep showing up.
And so the next week we climbed into the car, prayed some more, planned some more, and tried again. And again. And again.
One night Eve got into the car and declared, “I have friends.” We praised God the whole way home. Two weeks later, maybe not. Friendship is a jagged line.
Another night, London got into the car with a plan. She would find all the girls who seemed a little disconnected (the ones who didn’t always come to group, the ones who only sometimes came to worship) and pursue them with zeal. She would text them before every cell group. She would send wake up texts on Sunday mornings. She would plan gatherings and invite them. Like a general inspired by a devastating battlefield loss, failure had made her brave. Her plan would reap amazing results. It would also be hard and even when the group was well established with text threads and shared experiences and friendship bracelets, she’d wonder, “Why am I always the one initiating things? Does anyone actually want to hang out with me?”
I tell her, “Welcome to friendship. Even when you have it, it’s hard.” I’ll tell her later that everyone is asking these questions all the time forever.
This is the road we walked to get from that first night to the one a year later. Better: This is the war we fought.
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I’m reading a delightful little book about writing (Brenda Ueland’s If You Want to Write), and I’m struck by a thought: Writing is just waiting. The hard part isn’t putting the words on paper. The hard part is sitting in the chair and staying in the chair, actively opening my hands and mind, ready to receive what comes when it comes. Every day I show up to the chair expecting a fight. I’ll fight the critical voices in my head, the critical voices on Goodreads, the distractions of everyday life like laundry and bills and fingernail maintenance, the siren song of social media, and the guilt that comes from not sitting in the chair yesterday or the day before. I’ll fight to stay in the chair because writing is waiting and waiting takes patience and patience is war.
God is the Alpha and Omega, Beginning and End, Author, the Life, Father of heavenly lights, Source of the river beside which everything grows. It is God who gives gifts and enables fruit. Good words and good friends come from Him. Our job is simply to stay close to Him, to abide, and to wait. To stay put where he put us (come hell or high water).
Staying put is hard. Driving those two precious girls to that cell group meeting every week, knowing they might be excluded or ignored, knowing they’d question themselves (Am I pretty enough? Am I cool enough? Am I weird? What’s wrong with me that I don’t fit?), knowing they’d bruise their precious hearts as they fought to find a place—it was sometimes too much. Sometimes I wanted to scoop them up and run away from this hard thing. Sometimes I wondered if having friends was worth the pain of making them.
But then I’d remember my girls’ wise counsel: Making friends is never easy. If this is where God brought us, we’ll have to keep showing up.
Why did we press on? Why did we attend cell group every week? Why did we go to retreats? Why did we ignore the pain and tears and keep showing up? Because we believed God had something good for us here, and we were willing to wait for it. And because we knew: patience is war. It’s not passive. It’s doesn’t happen on accident. Waiting for God is holding on in a hurricane.
If that’s where you are, cold and tired, hands raw from holding onto the rope tied to the boat, anchored in the raging sea, know this: God will give you the strength to hold on until this storm passes. And this storm will, I promise, pass.
Lord, be gracious to us! We wait for you.
Be our strength every morning
and our salvation in time of trouble.
Isaiah 33:2
-JL
* I do hope you know, the fight to make friends wasn’t anyone’s fault. We love our girls’ youth ministers and cell group leaders, and we love the beautiful teenagers that make up those groups. Teen friendship is just hard. There’s no short cut. Even the purest hearts struggle to figure out how to include new people and outsiders. Plus, our girls were very out of practice at being American teenagers. Actually, they’d never done it before. They left to travel at 11 and 12, and came back clueless about social dynamics, TikTok, and everything “normal.” I’m truly proud of everybody—London and Eve AND their new friends for fighting through the awkward.
**Yes, I did ask the girls for permission to share this story—feel free to thank them for their beautiful generosity in the comments. :)
Storied Family Camp
I’ve been spending the last few weeks putting together the plan for our upcoming Storied Family Camp, and I am very, very excited (Stories around a camp fire with s’mores! Night zip-lining! Hikes! A quest!). Also, I’m excited about getting into the cold, clear Nueces River. If you’re interested in camp (October 13-15), we still have room for one or two families, but you’ll need to register asap. Check it all out HERE.
The Storied Family comes to Clarksville
Join us in Tennessee?
If you’re wondering, What’s the difference between a workshop and camp? The answer:
A workshop is a 3 hour conversation that explores three main ideas: 1. Your family is a part of a bigger story and helping your kids understand their place in that story is invaluable. 2. Knowing the story they’re living gives your kids a sense of belonging and identity. 3. Identifying the villain in the story (and embracing the inevitable happy ending in Christ) helps kids weather conflict with courage and hope.
Camp is an opportunity to more fully explore those ideas alongside our kids, including games, adventures, family worship, and story-sharing moments. A workshop is for those who’re interested in this way of approaching parenting. Camp is for those who want a chance to practice it.
Side note: We’re also doing The Storied Marriage in Clarksville. Two for one! Plus, thanks to the generosity of the church of Christ at Trenton Crossing, it’s free. Sign up via the QR code on the flyer.
I shared part of this with someone in my life that feels like they’re in the storm now. Thank you London and Eve for letting your mom write about the hard fight for friendship. I know God put you just where you needed to be. Not only to bless the people around you, but also to bless you both. :) Another great article! Miss you guys!
Am I crying in the library?