Building Sacred Space

Part 2 of 2

What I didn’t realize at the time was that accepting the part-time position of Director of Youth Ministry (UMC) and returning to the church would become one of the most healing and heartbreaking seasons of my life all at once.

Within two months of starting there, Hurricane Ian tore through our community near Fort Myers Beach and devastated so much around us. Life already felt fragile, and suddenly everyone around us was carrying loss in one form or another.

Then a month later, on October 22, my father passed away.

Ironically, or perhaps divinely, that same morning happened to be the very first day of our annual pumpkin patch fundraiser for the youth ministry. It was a massive undertaking that had existed for years before I arrived, and now it had landed in my hands.

That morning, while my heart was breaking, a semi truck full of pumpkins pulled into the church parking lot along with over a hundred volunteers ready to unload them.

And somehow… I did it.

Very few people knew what had happened that morning.

But the staff and the families who did know surrounded my daughter and me with so much kindness that I truly do not know how I would have survived that season without them.

Looking back now, I realize that church did exactly what churches are supposed to do.

It sheltered people.

Not perfectly.
But genuinely.

And somewhere inside all of that grief and chaos, youth ministry slowly began bringing me back to life too.

What I was really trying to build there was community.

A place where teenagers felt safe enough to be themselves.
A place where they could laugh loudly, ask hard questions, feel accepted, and know they mattered.

And I think, in many ways, we truly created that together.

To this day, many of those students and families still reach out to me.

The kids still send me pictures of freshly dyed hair colors because I always encouraged them to express themselves creatively and honestly rather than numbing themselves through unhealthy ways of coping.

That mattered to me deeply.

Hearing parents say things like,
Thank you for being in my child’s life,
or,
I trust you with them,
meant more to me than they probably ever realized.

Even now, some of those students still come to me when they’re hurting, confused, grieving, anxious, or simply needing someone to listen.

Because at the end of the day, none of it was ever really about programs or attendance numbers or titles.

It was about people.

It was about making sure someone felt seen.

After Hurricane Ian, our youth center temporarily became housing for people who had come to help rebuild the community.

And honestly, I was grateful it could serve that purpose.

But when we eventually returned to the space, I found myself once again cleaning, reorganizing, rebuilding, and trying to recreate a sense of warmth and belonging for the students.

That became a recurring theme during my time there.

Just when things would finally feel settled, we would be moved again.

At one point, the youth center became storage during church renovations and we found ourselves gathering in the church lobby instead, constantly setting up and tearing down each week trying to create something meaningful in temporary spaces.

Even our cooking ministry (and plans of the same) eventually became difficult once the kitchen was taken apart for renovations too.

Looking back now, I realize I spent much of that season building sacred spaces out of whatever was left available.

Beanbags.
Painter’s tape.
Lobby floors.
Moving tables.
Paper cups.
Teenagers carrying invisible burdens.
A woman trying to hold herself together while quietly helping hold others together too.

And despite everything, somehow… it still mattered.

I created something called Soup Sunday.

For weeks, I brought the teenagers into the church kitchen and taught them how to slice vegetables, season broth, cook together, clean together, laugh together. By the end of it all, we had made well over 120 containers of soup to give away to people in the community.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t really about the soup.

It was about belonging.

Through the ministry, I purchased giant beanbags for the youth room and every week we would sit in circles together and start with simple questions.

What was the best part of your week?
Favorite ice cream flavor?
Favorite color?
What’s one thing making you nervous lately?

Sometimes they debated silly things.
Sometimes they opened their hearts.

And eventually, after enough laughter and enough trust, we would move into scripture and talk honestly about how faith fits into modern teenage lives, fears, relationships, loneliness, identity, pressure, hope.

I also had to learn how to run an entire a/v system on my own, which honestly became one of my favorite unexpected challenges.

At the beginning of youth nights, we would all enjoy a nice meal together. At the end of youth nights, the kids would sing karaoke, play games, eat snacks, laugh too loud, and somehow those evenings slowly filled parts of me I thought had gone permanently silent.

One of my favorite memories was creating a labyrinth for Easter using nothing but painter’s tape across the floor.

In my imagination, I could already see it before it existed.

Soft music.
Battery candles glowing.
Stations throughout the labyrinth where students could stop and reflect.

At one station, I placed mirrors so they could look directly into their own eyes and remember they were beautifully made.

At another, they would write down their fears and watch them dissolve into a bowl of water.

And watching teenagers walk slowly through that room, gently touching hands while passing one another, with tears in their eyes, hugging me afterward, telling me they felt something real there…

Honestly, it meant more to me than almost anything else I accomplished during my time at the church.

Yes, even more than the soup.

Then my eldest son Cameron became sick.

I spent nearly a month with him in the hospital in Chicago.

And although no one ever directly said anything negative to me during that time, I carried this strange feeling inside that I was going to lose my position at the church.

I still don’t fully understand why I felt that so strongly.

The lead pastor called me twice while I was there and when I nervously mentioned my fear about losing my job, he laughed kindly and said,
You’re not going anywhere. I know a guy.

We both laughed.

But the feeling never left me.

After several weeks, Cameron seemed stable enough that I made the heartbreaking decision to briefly return to Florida.

Partly because I needed clothes.

But if I’m being honest, mostly because I wanted to physically show my face at the church so no one would think I had disappeared.

That decision still hurts me deeply now in hindsight.

A few days later, I returned to Chicago, honored Cameron’s wishes to be transported back to Florida, and four days later, he passed away.

By the end of that summer, I felt ready enough to return to ministry work.

But every time I reached out, I was gently told to keep taking more time.

At the time, I didn't fully understand what was unfolding. I do think everyone was doing the best they could with what they understood.

Eventually I returned. However, I soon received an email asking if we could meet to …catch up. It’s been a while.

I remember walking into the sanctuary before the meeting and seeing the lead pastor kneeling there alone in prayer.

Something inside of me immediately knew.

I quietly backed out to give him space, and a few moments later he walked me into the library where the church administrator and another church member were waiting.

I sat down.

They had decided to transition the role into a full-time position. And within moments, my part-time position was dissolved.

I looked around the room and sincerely thanked them.

Then I looked at the lead pastor and said:

You know… I think God knew I needed to be here through all of this. But maybe now God is saying, “You’re going to be okay.”

-

Some places are not meant to keep us forever.

Some places are meant to carry us through the storm long enough for us to remember who we are again.

Looking back now, I can see something I couldn’t fully see then.

You see, prior to returning to the church, I was moving through parts of my life a hundred miles an hour in the wrong direction.

Sometimes emotionally.
Sometimes relationally.
Maybe even spiritually.

And when we do that, eventually we hit a wall.

It smarts and leaves real marks.

But now I almost wonder if God was gently saying:

Come over here for a while.
Sit a spell.

Let Me soften this season long enough for you to breathe again.

That is what the church became for me.

Not a permanent destination.
Not the final chapter.
But a sacred resting place.

The church became the container that held me through consecutive waves of loss:

• The collapse of the messy relationship

• My dad's passing

• Cameron's illness

• and Cameron's death

All while God slowly rebuilt parts of me that were exhausted, grieving, distracted, or quietly losing themselves.

God sheltered me in place.

And eventually, there comes a moment when God lovingly says:

Okay now…
stand up.

It’s time to walk again.

—

Grief arrives in so many different forms.

Not only through death,
but through the loss of relationships,
routines,
dreams,
homes,
friendships,
roles we thought would last forever,
and even former versions of ourselves.

We all change.

And honestly, growing older is a gift not everyone receives.

Maybe part of healing is learning not to fear the changing —
but to trust that God remains present inside all of it.

With love,

Mar

P.S. Nothing and no one matters more than your children. No matter what age. Love them loudly while you can.

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