#moose diary

The earliest memory I have of being embarrassed was when I was I was 7 years old.

I was by all measures a “church kid.” Virtually all of the memories I have before middle school are set in a church or in a Christian school. I went to Sunday School as soon as my parents could leave me by myself and by junior year of high school, I had been managing and facilitating the youth group at a small Lutheran church in Johnston County, NC. My mom’s parents met at a church camp (and he proposed to her on the first date, but that’s a story for another day). My grandfather’s second career was as a Methodist minister. My dad’s mom has sung in church choirs since just after WWII. The pews were my playground, and I knew every nook and cranny in every church I ever attended. Regardless of how I feel about churches now, back then, they were my fortress and refuge. I felt safe, loved, cared for, at home. And, like a good little Sunday School attendee, I wanted everyone to be a part of it. I received love, and I was charged to share it. My relationship with church goes much further and deeper, but for the purposes of sharing this story, my church was my happy childhood home.

I have never been great at dealing with change. Still not. But in my compulsive need to please every authority figure ever, I compartmentalize my negative feelings away and shift my focus to managing the change in the most responsible and enthusiastic way humanly possible.

My first pastor was Pastor Steve (I was too young to understand last names while I knew him, but I’m sure my parents would know if I asked), and he was the church’s only pastor. It wasn’t until I changed churches that I even knew church’s could have a main pastor, a youth pastor, a senior pastor, a vicar, etc all at one church, so for me, Pastor Steve was/had to be everything I needed in a Pastor. When I was that young, he didn’t need to be a lot though. Children’s messages before sermons on Sunday mornings and helping with the Christmas pageant is all I really remember about him anymore. But I was also so young that I hadn’t yet learned that people can leave you forever. I knew that when someone left you, you should feel scared. When I was three, my dad was in a terrible accident (which is also a story for another day), but he eventually came back to me. I hadn’t yet lost anyone else, so I assumed when someone leaves, they eventually come back.

But Pastor Steve left. In many denominations, like in many other professions, clergy can move from job to job, and in some cases they have to. I’m sure that all of the adults understood that this is part of his job, and they probably all had a better grasp on the concept of “moving on” (one I still struggle with). But his departure blindsided me. How could we possibly have church without Pastor Steve? Well, fret not, young Moose. Some faceless authority swoops in and delivers a brand new one as soon as the door closes behind the last one.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand that it is a good thing that my church only had a small amount of time without a leader at the helm. I’m sure it kept things orderly. But my feeble mind couldn’t fathom how I was supposed to mourn the loss of a significant figure in my life (I also had a sort of strange childhood crush on him, but that’s part of a much, much larger story about my confusing relationships with spiritual authority figures) and concurrently begin attending to the task of being responsible and enthusiastic about this change. Somewhere along the way, I bargained with myself about my best course of action. If I could simply be capable of anticipating and meeting every single need this new pastor had, maybe I could be so good, then he wouldn’t leave like the last one. Problem solved. If I could prevent anyone from leaving by being the most perfect and helpful person, I wouldn’t have to deal with grief or mourning ever again.

ALL of this to say, I had mad anxiety about meeting this dude for the first time.

The ladies at the church had organized a welcome party for this new pastor in the church’s basement fellowship hall. It must’ve been a Saturday afternoon, because I remember the clear rays of sunshine being dissolved into a hazy mist by the white gauzy, floor-length curtains, and how that light danced on the backs of metal folding chairs and gave an ethereal glow to the popcorn ceiling. He and his family walked through the swing doors into oblong fellowship hall and I don’t remember what else happens until I’m sitting with my parents, the new pastor and his family, including a daughter about a year older than me, and maybe a handful of other people. The conversation must’ve died down a little bit, and my stressed out self decided to break the silence. Now was my chance, I thought, I can make this girl my best friend and then I’ll have a big “in” with her dad. I made direct eye contact, and very matter-of-fact, very I’m-the-one-who-knows-stuff-around-here, very just-loud-enough-to-let-the-adults-know-that-I’m-helpful-AND-confident-about-it, said to his daughter:

“So, here we have this really cool youth room, it has huge couches all over the place. I hang out there all the time. And we have all this Kool-Aid in the kitchen, and I know where they keep it. I can show you sometime if you want.” #humblebrag

The girl snickered (I’m sure it was just a giggle that my sensitive brain coded as a snicker). She replied, “I’ve been here before, I already know about the youth room and the Kool-Aid.”

Instantly I blushed and cowered. Of course! Of course she’s been here before, you idiot. Her dad just talked about how much he enjoyed the tour last week. Oh man, now the adults think you’re not very helpful after all. I don’t remember if anyone else -actually- laughed at me, but I certainly remember feeling like they were at least doing it in their heads. And I remember feeling like I deserved to feel humiliated because I hadn’t known quite as much as I thought I did. Now everyone thinks I’m stupid. And clearly I am. Not smart enough. Not helpful enough.

Later in my childhood, a frequent icebreaker question for truth-or-dare was, “What’s your most embarrassing memory?” and this moment, and the piercing vacuum in my stomach, feeling momentarily unable to breathe, my cheeks hot with blood, is what always came to mind. But the thing is, it’s not really that embarrassing. Like straight up, if that same interaction happened today, I would just laugh back and say “my bad!” I offered something, someone simply said they didn’t need that thing.

So, ok. It’s not embarrassing. But in my memory, this moment is dripping in shame.

Even today, for the life of me, I cannot figure out why this particular moment was such a trigger of shame for me, canonizing itself in my Childhood Memories™--greatest hits edition. But I do recognize that it is an early intersection of self image issues that are scattered in bits and pieces around the rest of my life. My relationships to and with male authority figures. My fear of not knowing everything. My battle with feeling inferior to everyone else. Second guessing my instinct. The question, “am I actually being helpful? Or am I trying to look like I’m helpful?” My perceived inability to form meaningful and long-lasting relationships with anyone. My struggle with the role my faith and spirituality have overall in my life.

Everyone’s faces and names have faded from my memory now, I don’t even remember that first or last name of that new pastor or his daughter. I don’t really have a sense of what else was going on that day, I only remember fleeting images of the afternoon. But I remember that physical feeling of being -mortified- and -humilated- like it was yesterday. The breathlessness, the hot cheeks, that sharp pull in my belly. I can’t parse out why exactly THIS moment is the one that represents “Embarrassment” for me. But I hope this moment is earmarked for my growth, that I might be able to glean some important lesson from such an emotionally charged moment.

It’s either that, or I just have a really shitty “Most Embarrassing Memory.”