I have been here
for fifteen years.
I used to come, pregnant,
to watch children who are now grown.
I used to bring my baby,
who was dedicated in this church,
to services,
where she would fuss
or crawl on the floor.
I brought that baby to her first day of preschool,
when she was three,
to the preschool renting space from the church,
on a scholarship.
I stood outside the doors and cried,
because that's what some parents do,
when their babies first indicate that one day they will be grown.
My baby fell on the playground,
on the bridge,
and she has a scar on her face,
where it was glued shut,
but we know it's from the playground.
That playground is where we gathered,
where both of my children
met friends,
hunted for Easter eggs,
ate popsicles,
hung upside down,
crossed the monkey bars,
cried when it was time to leave.
I mentored youth,
who babysat my babies.
Now my firstborn is a youth,
who volunteers in the nursery.
They say it takes a village,
and this is my village.
My babies have grown here,
nurtured and supported
by their friends' parents
by their Sunday teachers
by the people who feel comfortable gently correcting them in the halls.
But I have grown here.
From someone who needed more nurturing
to someone who provides nurturing,
with support through my cancer, my degree, the ups and downs,
by my children's friends' parents,
by the pastoral care committee,
by the people who have known me since I was a youth myself, through wider circles,
by those who have seen me as a leader,
which made me become one,
by those who voted for me to help lead this church,
by people who feel comfortable gently confronting me in the halls.
It takes a village to raise a child,
this is my village,
and it has raised me.
