As a very young man, I was a Youth Minister in the Catholic Church. I volunteered at St. Francis Xavier Parish in Cashmere, Washington for about 5 years and then was hired by St. Rita Parish in Portland, Oregon as a full time staff member. During the five years of voluntary work for the Church, I held a full time job as a candy factory worker. The job at the factory was very monotonous, boring and un-fulfilling but was a job non-the less. My work with the youth of the parish however, was exciting, creative, personal and vastly fulfilling. In the factory, I felt like I had no more significance than one of the wooden paddles used to mix the candy in the vast copper kettles. If one were to break, you’d just get another. As a youth minister though, I felt like I was doing something very special. I felt I was being called by God; hand selected as it were to do his bidding, share His Gospel and guide His People to His Heart.
It was during those five years of volunteer ministry that I also began to write songs. In fact I learned to play the guitar at the age of 20 because I had a song in my head that needed accompaniment. This new experience of hearing original songs in my head, learning the guitar and then playing and singing my songs for the youth group was exulting. And then one day, at a weekend youth retreat, the retreat leader asked me to give a talk about friendship and I ended the talk by singing, “You Are My Friends”. From that point on, I found myself being invited to various parishes, retreats, church functions, etc., just to play my songs. I felt pretty special and increasingly “important.”
“God had given me this gift of music and I was using that gift to minister to His people”, I thought to myself, especially during the long, boring hours at the candy factory when I felt un-noticed and expendable.
And then, one Saturday I attended a workshop with other Youth Ministers from many denominations in a big convention room in Seattle, Washington. It just so happened that a friend of mine from another city was in attendance and we decided to share the day together.
The workshop was a training session in communication skills. After a brief introduction of the main speaker, he asked that the entire room break up into groups of 10 – 12 and form tight circles. My friend and I decided to be in the same “small group” and once done, we awaited further instructions. The main speaker then asked that we introduce ourselves to the others in the group and include one talent or gift that each person thought they used most effectively in ministry. I remember everyone giving a huge sigh as if to say “do we have to?” but, I also remember thinking I was looking forward to talking about my gift of music. The sharing began and each person described what gift they used in ministry: story telling, arts and crafts, drama, organization, and others who used music. I was the only one who actually wrote my own songs, so when it was my turn to share, I took on a humble but grateful posture and tone of voice and elaborated on how my gift of song writing “hopefully touched kids lives”.
My friend was the last to speak in the group. I remember she took a deep breath and then, before speaking, burst into a chorus – like belly laugh that concluded with, “Oh my God, I have none of those gifts. I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I don’t draw, I can’t act.” And then she paused, took another deep breath and said, “I guess I don’t have any gifts. The only gift I have is to love the kids. I can be with them, laugh with them, cry with them...just love them. It’s all I’ve got.”
It is, to this day, difficult for me to describe what those words, at that time meant for me to hear. It was for me a critical wake up call, the ultimate gut check. So what if I can write music, play the guitar and “hope to touch kids lives” if I don’t really love them. Is ministry about me or them or God or, all of the above? And further, what gift is truly a gift without love?
On the three-hour drive from Seattle to Cashmere that evening, I kept hearing what my friend said. Not only was I hearing her words, but the lightness in her voice and the utter acceptance in her laughter. She wasn’t being pious or humble. She was genuinely grateful that she had the gift of love to offer her kids. It was somewhere between Snoqualmie Pass and Blewett Pass that I heard the words and melody, almost at the same time, to a song called, I Can Love.
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