Youth Sunday is a day at my Church back home where they congratulate the graduating seniors by having them come up on stage where our Youth Pastor says a few words about us and then tells the congregation where each of us is going for college and what we plan to study. It’s a pretty simple event, but one that was a pretty monumental day in my life.
I hadn’t gone to Church all of senior year—my family had found out I was a Christian a couple weeks into my senior year so there was not much I was able to do. Youth Sunday was the first time I’d gone to a Sunday service as a Christian. I remember the weeks leading up to that day—it was absolutely terrifying and stressful. I was afraid my mom was going to kick me out of the house, in fact, I was sure of it. She’d told me before that as long as I was under her roof I was not allowed to go to Church, and if I did she’d kick me out. I was preparing for the worst—getting my stuff to a friend’s house when I had the chance, borrowing duffle-bags from another friend to pack the rest of my stuff in, updating my passport, getting a hold of my SS card—I had a long list of things to do and every time I went to cross something off the list I felt a little closer to the moment I’d have to say goodbye. My Youth Pastor knew I might be getting kicked out and he’d assured me I wouldn’t end up on the streets—my Church was and still is such a blessing in my life. I was taken care of, but part of me was still hoping I wouldn’t need someone to take me in. The other part desperately wanted out of my house.
I hated every minute of it, though, of preparing for getting kicked out. I hated thinking that I would not be allowed back into my home, I hated thinking that my mom wouldn’t want to be my mom anymore, I was miserable.
The day (aka Saturday) came where I had to finally tell my mom I’d be going to Church on Sunday—my ride for the following morning was set and I was packed and ready to be kicked out. I don’t think I’d ever seen my mom so furious and upset at the same time. She seemed broken and hurt, which was understandable, but I was determined to go. She didn’t talk to me for the rest of the night and the next morning I got up and dressed extremely early—my ride was supposed to pick me up at 6:00AM. I figured if I was going to walk out of my house with bags I might as well do it when no one is awake. And I also felt more comfortable leaving early than I did later—I don’t know why.
I went downstairs, praying the whole way and scared out of my mind. I went to my mom’s room and sat on the floor next to her bed and stared at her. She noticed I was there and looked at me for a bit then turned around so she wouldn’t have to look at me. I sat next to her and tried talking to her for a bit, told her I loved her and that she was still my mom, but I had to do this. She told me to leave her alone, that I didn’t love her, and that she wasn’t my mom and I wasn’t her daughter. That stung. She started crying and I walked out of the bedroom and into the foyer, ready to leave. I started praying and begging God to do something, and telling Him not to let me walk out that door if this wasn’t really part of His will, begging him to give me a reason to stay. My mom walked into the living room and stared at me then asked if I was really leaving. I said yes and she flipped out. She fell onto the couch crying and screaming and I went over to help her, but she just yelled at me and kept crying, telling me I didn’t love her and all I was doing was hurting her. I tried to comfort her, but it didn’t help, and then I asked if she was going to let me come back home. She said I could come back but that I wasn’t her daughter anymore and that she didn’t care. I went up to my room once she left the living room. I stayed in there for a few minutes which, in hindsight, I probably should not have done.
I was hurting real bad, seeing the pain I was causing my mom really drove me over the edge, but I couldn’t get myself to cry. So I ended up taking the blade out of a sharpener and cutting at my arm until there was blood all over my bed. I figured I deserved at least that much if I couldn’t cry after watching my mom suffer like that. I bandaged up the cuts and grabbed a sweatshirt once I realized I was supposed to go see my ride soon and be at Church later that morning. I went downstairs and walked into the foyer again and prayed some more before leaving, my bags still upstairs and thanking God for giving me another chance to come home.
My friend Matt met me a block away from my house at 6AM—what a blessing that man has been in my life. I got into his car and explained what had happened at home—minus the part in my room—while we drove to his house so he could get ready for Church.
We got to Church, the service went as planned, and I was so thankful to be there—but I couldn’t get my mom out of my head. I was still sad. Some people asked about the bandage I had around my arm (I had to take the sweatshirt off once I got to Church—I felt like it wasn’t appropriate Church-wear) and I lied. They believed me, and I still feel bad when I think about it now.
After the service, or maybe during it, I can’t remember entirely, my Youth Pastor gave all the seniors a copy of Desiring God, except for me and Travis, we already owned copies and had read the book, so he gave us each a copy of When I Don’t Desire God. He also wrote a little note in each of the seniors’ books, I read it every once in a while when I notice the book on my shelf.
I read the note tonight, which is what inspired this post, and I’d type the note out to you but I feel like that’d take too much time. But parts of it stuck out tonight.
Keep pressing through the trials and suffering for those are a gift from God, preparing you for the service of His glory.
I thought I understood him when I first read the note, but I didn’t understand until now. I hated my senior year, it was possibly the most miserable year of my life, but oh how I’ve grown because of it. That year I learned what it meant to trust in God alone, to be still and know that He is God. That year I learned what it meant to persevere by the strength of God and not my own, I would not be alive if I’d depended on myself. Christ was all I knew that year, there was no good in my life besides Him. My friends had stopped talking to me, most of my family stopped talking to me, I felt alone and scared and all I had was Christ and His Bride. I take Church-bashing personally because I could never adequately explain all that my Church has done for me. But that year I never got to see them, except for the few times I managed to get to Youth Group on Wednesdays—but they still prayed for me all the time and sent me encouraging messages on Facebook to make sure I was okay. I love them so much, and I thank God for them often.
Senior year was a miserable year, but I would not give it up for anything in the world. Because even though I am extremely thankful and blessed to be here at Calvin College, it is so easy to forget how worthless all I hold dear is compared to Christ. It is easy to stop depending on God when things are going good and I feel like I don’t need to depend on Him. It is easy to lose that excitement and eagerness when it comes to going to Church and reading my Bible when I am able to do these things freely all the time. My Youth Pastor started the note off with this prayer:
Malak-
I pray you never need this book.
I never thought I would, to be honest, especially being at a Christian school and living the life I dreamed of living when I was a senior in high school. I always thought my faith would be stronger here, but it turns out it’s harder to be a Christian at a Christian school than it is to be one in a Muslim home surrounded by Muslims who don’t appreciate your faith and are trying their best to stop you from practicing it.
I wouldn’t wish the things I’ve gone through upon anyone, but I won’t deny that the trials and suffering I’ve endured have blessed me in more ways than I could possibly imagine.
Keep pressing through the trials and suffering for those are a gift from God, preparing you for the service of His glory.
