I serve as a special needs pastor at a small church in Kansas. I have had a mentally trying time for the last three months. Much of this is due to my own mental health conditions, but it doesn’t end there. The last quarter of the year hosts about a third of our special needs ministry events. This is also a uniquely difficult season in which to be a pastor. Balancing the encouragement of fellowship and growth along with helping support individual decisions and comfort levels is hard. COVID threw a wrench in everything.
Sometimes it’s like I cannot be enough. There are so many families in need of support. Each of these families has a differing view on what ‘safe’ looks like in a pandemic. These stressors create so much anxiety. All I want to do is love people and point them to Jesus! But it feels like I can’t. Even people who attend our many events don’t attend church on Sundays. No, Sunday morning numbers for special needs families still haven’t returned to normal since March 2020. Being a numbers driven person, this makes me feel like I’m failing and has had me grasping for every moment of celebration I can find.
It was on a particularly-defeated Sunday morning that I received the single greatest gift I’ve received all year. Let me explain:
Children with disabilities are just like everyone else. Their personalities vary widely. Some are bubbly and jovial. Some are introverted and serious. There is a young man in our church with high functioning autism who is much more serious, stern, and introverted. He is hard to read. It’s really hard to know when he’s happy or enjoying himself because he’s just so stern.
At the beginning of December, I got into a car accident. It was nothing severe. I did break my toe, though. I shared this fact with his mother in a casual conversation on a Wednesday night.
His mom told me that he had been worried about me, so I did the typical thing for me that Sunday. I approached him and said, “Hey, thanks for worrying and praying for me after the car wreck. I’m okay. Broke my toe and my back hurts, but I’m okay. I just wanted you to know that it meant a lot to me to know you cared.”
With his serious expression unchanged, this young man gave me my favorite Christmas gift.
“Of course, you’re my friend. I hope you feel better.” His expression remained unfazed.
Photo credit: Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.com.
He’s private and so quiet, so introverted, and so independent that I had no idea. It sounds silly. I’m 32 years old and he’s 15. It has been such a hard three months; those words mattered to me.
You see this young man—lover of Star Wars and cats—doesn’t make friends lightly. He observes everything. He carefully watches people. He’s content being alone and doesn’t need social interaction to affirm his value. That word meant something to him.
It means that he trusts me. That he cares about me. That he wants the best for me. He accepts me as I am— bubbly and loud—he can even tolerate talking to me.
I trust him. I care about him, and I want what’s best for him. I accept him as he is: stern, a loner. I guess that makes me his friend, too.
Since that day, we have talked, and he shared that he loves our church. He’s even shared some of his social struggles with me and found peace in the fact that I also have some of them. He took interest in something that was bothering me without caring that it wasn’t in his normal interest group. He has offered to pray for me and asked me to pray for him.
This year, I—a tired and hurting pastor—received one of the most precious gifts anyone can receive: friendship. That is a gift I wish for each and every one of you in the year 2022. A friend who trusts you, cares about you, accepts you, and can even tolerate talking to you.
Joanna French is the special needs pastor at Flint Hills Church, Junction City, KS. Joanna and her husband Jairmie have two boys with autism. In 2017, Joanna started Flint Hills Embrace, with the goal to make Flint Hills Church a place where everyone belongs. Why? Because we all have a place in God's plan.
