About a month ago, I got a text from my former small group leader at church asking if I could be a storyteller this week for the elementary school ministry. I knew, even then, that I'd be doing absolutely nothing, so I casually accepted. I didn't think much of it until I got home and was sent the script. After a week or two of being lulled into numbness and apathy from the hours I'd chained myself to the bed and couch watching TV, I was horrified as I scrolled through the lines and lines of narrative I'd have to memorize.
In the weeks leading up to the service, I sighed and repeatedly regretted letting myself get "roped into doing this" every time I glanced at the script. This week, I worked more than usual and was tired almost every afternoon and of course, didn't want to spend any time memorizing the thing. When I got up at 6am this morning (earlier than I'd woken voluntarily in probably a year), I regretted it once more. Never again, I told myself as I dragged myself bleary-eyed out of bed. I'll make up an excuse next time they ask me, I repeated in my head as I rifled through my mom's closet for a silk blouse. This is the only time I'm doing this, I thought as I drove to church in the bright morning sunlight. I got to church, smiled at everyone. Was given my microphone. Went to pace around lazily backstage. Stumbled through the first service and collapsed in a backstage lawn chair to doze between sermons, silently lamenting my inconvenience and the frigid temperatures backstage preventing me from restful sleep. Just this one time, I grumbled as I got the microphone tangled in my hair.
But when I got onstage for the 9:30 service, amidst the (much larger) crowd of energetic little ones, something mysterious happened. Despite my best attempts, I enjoyed myself. Those darn theater major instincts kicked in and that familiar high of performing rushed into my system, and suddenly, I delighted in making those fidgety, hand-raising little bodies be still and silent with my memorized lines about Daniel and King Nebuchadnezzar's mysterious dream. I loved how eagerly they shot their small hands in the air to answer my questions. I was swept into the captivating power of Scripture; I could feel God's overwhelming love for these little people and suddenly it was of the utmost importance that they realized what the message of selflessness and conviction meant for them.
Against all reason, I cared.
By the end of the last service, I had found my performance groove, once again swept into the story by my love of being onstage. My small group leader hugged me afterwards and asked if she could count on me to be the storyteller more this summer. I hesitated. Still, my selfish heart grumbled something about boring memorization and early mornings.
I can't say I had this beautiful moment of realization and suddenly, I loved the service of storytelling. I don't even know if I'll do it again. Honestly, a big part of me still doesn't want to. But that darn performance high was real, and the spontaneous urgency to be Jesus' vehicle into those kids' hearts was so strong.
How beautiful and stealthy of God to go, "Hey, that thing you're super not excited about? I'm gonna show you how I feel about it. I'm betting you'll like it."
God's love is no joke. It's contagious.
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