Welcome Them All the Way In

Corrie ten Boom, Burnout, and Accidental Ministry Work

Last January I launched a book club within my church. I hoped it might expand beyond our church, and so I hosted it at a local bookshop.¹ In the past year we’ve read gorgeous works of fiction and thought-provoking nonfiction.² Attendance has ranged from begging just one more chair from the coffee shop for our group of twenty-two, to just myself and three others chatting art and mental health so compellingly (apparently) as to make a young woman listen in and read the next few titles with us.

It’s gone well. But do you know what? It requires a surprising amount of upkeep and admin. Enough to make this creative spirit buckle under the weight of it… the unsolicited opinions, the disgruntled email responses, ill-timed critique at my communication. It’s not all the time and it’s not everyone, not by a long stretch, but it does catch me off guard. At some point in the year, I began hearing a few people call this book club a “ministry” and was chagrined to find it listed under “Small Groups” available to join at our church. I’ve led small groups before and I’m always fairly aware of it requiring leadership and stewardship. Did I go into this book club with the same mindset? I did not. Frankly, I was simply hoping to find some like minds. More of an iron sharpening iron experience. (Be careful what you ask for.)

As daylight waned and I began thinking about how to conserve energy this winter, I decided to pivot our book club instead of scrapping it altogether. I announced a three-month film series and potluck. “This will be lovely,” I thought. “Lean into hygge, that’ll do it.” Well, I suppose I underestimated what goes into organizing a potluck, even with SignUpGenius. When the actual day arrived to watch the film adaptation of Peterson’s play The Hiding Place, I went to the church around 10am to get AV support, spent the afternoon prepping soup, and arrived 40 minutes before showtime to have things ready.

Mrs. Sweet* was there before me, though. She was hefting a large plastic tote to the door when I pulled in and when I intercepted her, I saw that her car was full of what appeared to be Christmas decor. 

“Will we have access to the kitchen do you think? I brought real plates and bowls and I’d like to at least rinse them off before I bring them back home,” she said.

“Real…? Real plates and bowls?” I said, taking the quite-heavy tote from her.

I realize this sounds extreme, but at that moment it felt as though an elephant was stepping on my chest.

Iambarelymakingit. Iambarelymakingit. Childrenallthetime andlaundrychickennuggets and bathtimebedtime grocerylist repeat. Iambarelymakingit andthisissupposedtoendatnine andnow… dishes? More dishes? 

Our lovely church secretary held the door open for me as I breathed, “Oh, pray for me. Lynne, pray for me right now. Real dishes. She brought real dishes.”

I set the tote down and returned to Mrs. Sweet’s car, saying, “Oh, Mrs. Sweet. I meant paper plates and things. I brought some with me just in case.” At this point she was unloading a real, living amaryllis and draping a garment bag over her arm. Had she packed formalwear?

“I know that,” she said. “I thought we could do it special, though.” 

As I helped her unload, I felt a wash of acceptance come over me. Lynne must have been praying because God, in His infinite wisdom, was right there in my mind and heart telling me not to fight this. Once in the room, she unzipped the garment bag to reveal perfectly pressed table runners, and she turned to me to say: “I just wanted to honor Corrie.” 

My heart ached. As I found extension cords for crockpots and welcomed the rest of the group in, Mrs. Sweet set a themed centerpiece across our tables, little chotskies representing elements of Corrie ten Boom’s life. We ate and laughed together, we watched breathlessly as the story of the ten Boom’s family came to life on the screen. The order and beauty of her father’s clockmaking shop, the exhilaration of hiding Jews at first, the moxy of procuring hundreds of extra ration stamps to feed approximately 800 extra mouths, and the unimaginable horror of the concentration camps where both her father and sister died. As the credits rolled, I felt bonded with the others in a way I hadn’t expected. And Mrs. Sweet’s lovely tables were wonderfully cozy. Hygge even. A Monday evening example of a table set before us, welcoming us, naming us worthy of beauty and care. 

I don’t have time to run a ministry. I have three children 8 and under, and I homeschool my oldest. My thin margins of childcare are spent in sheer recovery, in brief but uninterrupted conversation with my husband, in writing and preparing to teach workshops, or any number of other merited things. I have a novel that wants more of me. Writing deadlines I miss. We are wanting for better meal planning over here, more exercise, and a tidier household. I am, like so many women, barely holding it together. And yet, He will take my loaves and fishes (if I let Him). At times He will have to pry them from my hands, these last remnants of my goodwill and energy, and He will use them for my good. Sanctification at this phase of my life is so much like wrestling an overtired toddler into a warm bath. It is so much more comfortable to stay as I am and I am very, very willful but once I surrender, oh it is good. All around me, it is good.

You should watch The Hiding Place with a bowl of soup. You should think of what you would be willing to do for a neighbor and then endure the radical disruption of actually doing something far simpler, simply surrendering your will to theirs, building something not entirely your own, welcoming them all the way in. 

*Dear Mrs. Sweet goes by another name outside of this essay, as you may imagine. 

---

ps. I can’t promise you soup, but I would love to talk art and writing with you at one of my upcoming writing workshops. Here are the details:

March 17th—Exploring Setting in Narrative Essay via Exhale Creative Marketplace

April 21st—Writing About Real People via Exhale 

May 19th—Beginnings + Endings in Narrative Essay via Exhale 

Starting July 7th—4-Week Writing Critique

Starting September 1st—Fall Coaching Cohort 

1.

2. Like Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead and Madeleine l’Engle’s Walking On Water