Grace and Gospel All Over Again

For the aid of the reader, here’s a list of the people in this post:

·      Lizzie, Kelly, Jenje, and Kaci, friends of mine who also became RAs

·      Sarah, the leader of my RA small group

·      Amy, the current RA of my new floor

…

We looked like a bunch of lost puppies, huddled outside the Culby 1 Great Room. Two strong young men stood guard at the door, keeping the lot of us out until it was time. Upperclassman after upperclassman entered that room before us, cheering and smiling at us in excitement. We made small talk to stifle our nerves.

“How do you feel?”

“Do you know what floor you got?”

“This is so crazy!”

“We’re about to find out!”

All the questions and exclamations swirled around us, and I trembled a little. Suddenly, from behind the doors, we heard a rumble start. Every one of us took a deep breath, and held it.

“You can come in now!” the two guards said, thrusting the doors open. A cheer erupted from inside.

Our group snaked in with timid smiles, while the upperclassmen showered us with whoops and hollers. Everything was energy—pure, unfiltered energy coursing through the air and into the veins of all students in the room. We lined up against the windows and awaited our fate, knowing only one thing:

Each and every one of us was about to become an RA at Moody Bible Institute.

...

I’d been offered the job a month ago, in a short email from one of the Residence Life supervisors. I was standing in the dining room of the Jerusalem hostel when I got it, and it took everything in me not to squeal. I trembled then, too, in excitement. But there were seven of us there who had applied, and only three had been accepted. My emotions warred inside of me that day.

The RA position at Moody wasn’t just a job—it was also a discipleship program. The investment Res Life made in us was huge: one-on-one mentorship, small groups with other RAs, leadership training sessions every week, and a hands-on ministry environment to hone all the skills they were giving us. It was ideal practice for the full-time ministry we were going into.

Two weeks after I found out I’d been accepted, I received an email from Moody’s housing department saying I had my housing assignment. That’s odd, I thought, knowing the RAs weren’t supposed to be able to see their assignments yet. I checked the assignment and my heart sank.

There it was. My floor and my room number, two weeks before I was supposed to know. I knew absolutely nothing about the floor and it was different than any of the ones I’d ever expected to get.

Maybe it’s a mistake, I hoped, not wanting the surprise to be ruined. By the time I returned to Moody, though, half of the new RAs had experienced the same thing and we all knew it was real. The cat was out of the bag.

I was the new RA of Houghton 7 North.

...

On the one hand, I was thankful for the time I had to mentally prepare. On the other hand, it wasn’t helping me much now. As I stood there against the windows with all the others, I feared momentarily that I might be sick. What if it really was a mistake and I was going somewhere completely different? What if it wasn’t mistake and they hated me? What if I couldn’t do it? Anxiety clutched at my heart and held me rigid among the other nervous RAs.

Meanwhile, one of the RSs was drawing our names out of a bowl, a little smile on her face as the energy around her intensified. All four of the small groups stood in front of us, clustered together, the current RAs waiting to scream anytime one of their own was called. They had found out earlier that week who was joining them and I was certain there were a lot of mixed emotions for them, too, hidden behind their cheers. Every one of us who came in meant one of them was leaving.

On the far left, I saw the small group I would soon be a part of. “The Green Room,” they called themselves. All of them were decked out in cute green outfits and I smiled to realize I matched them without trying. My nerves lessened slightly.

I had known four other girls who got accepted as RAs: Lizzie, Kelly, Kaci, and JenJe. To each of them, I’d said, “I hope we get into the same small group!”—knowing full well that it was nearly impossible that I would end up in the same group with all four of them. As they called Lizzie up, I braced myself for disappointment. She was one of my best friends, a gem of gems, and I was certain the other group would claim her.

The RS was unrolling the slip of paper. “Lizzie Latoundji,” she said, and Lizzie took her place in front of her. “You’ll be a part of...the Green Room!”

I wanted to cry with relief. I watched Lizzie run over to them and they all rushed in for a group hug. My nerves grew quieter still. I could do this with Lizzie beside me.

They called JenJe up, and Kelly, and Kaci, and each time I held my breath against the disappointment. It never came. Every single one of them was called to the Green Room and wildly embraced. They called my name last, and I took my place among them, my smile coming a little easier. The night had just begun, and already God had been abundantly gracious. I could trust Him with all of it.

…

Every RA small group was led by an RS (Resident Supervisor), and ours was Sarah, the tall, blonde, hilarious overseer of Houghton floors 2-7. She led us to her apartment and had all twenty of us sit down in every available space.

“Okay, so I know you all want to know what floors you’re on,” she said, plunking down against the wall and looking around at us eagerly. “But I’m gonna talk for about ten or fifteen minutes first, so just try to pay attention.” There was a gleam in her eye as she said it, and all of us tried not to groan. We were chomping at the bit.

I was glad, though, for everything she said. She told us how she’d been hired at the last minute a year ago, when Moody had made some changes and opened the position just before the start of the school year. I remembered the season. She had stood in front of us at the women’s all hall meeting, less than a month on the job, and told us her goal to learn the name of every person on campus. Seeing her enthusiasm now, I believed she could do it.

She told us that the week after she’d arrived, she’d needed a place to have small group and her apartment wasn’t ready. Res Life had set her up in the Green Room, behind our auditorium, and as she’d reflected, she decided it was a good name for her small group. “The green room,” she said, “is a place for actors and performers to rehearse and rest between scenes. Now, I don’t want to create the false perception that being an RA is a performance—it’s not. But you’re going to feel like you’re on display a lot of the time, and you are. You’re visible and you’re going to have to make decisions in light of that. So I want this small group to be a space for you to simply be who you are.”

I looked around at the current RAs nodding in agreement. This year, the Green Room had been that space for them. Soon, it would be our turn, to sit in this room and breathe and talk and laugh and cry. I felt a little more relaxed just thinking about it.

Finally, Sarah sent us on an Easter egg hunt around her apartment, saying she wanted us to feel comfortable moving in her space. Each of us found an egg with our name on it and when everyone had finished, we sat down and opened them together.

A slip of paper popped out of mine and I nodded as I read the words: “Jessi Bee – Seven North.”

Around me, the other girls burst up and hugged their preceding RAs. Mine was across the room, with a ‘7’ painted on one cheek and an ‘N’ on the other. We pushed through the group and finally reached each other. In that moment, I didn’t even know her name, but we both understood that we had a part in a legacy reaching further back and further forward than ourselves. There was connection in that, even though we were strangers, and embracing her was sweet. All throughout the room, the torches were being passed this way.

It was a good night for the Green Room sisters.

…

“What made you want to be an RA?” Amy and I were seated on Sarah’s tiny guest room couch, and she was smiling as she asked the question.

I took a deep breath. “Well, I had already planned on doing it before I got to Moody, just because of the money, but then I was the ARA on my floor for two semesters and realized that this is the kind of ministry I love the most, this immersive, life-on-life type of ministry.”

She nodded, still grinning. We asked questions back and forth, and she guarded and supported my timid spirit like a mother hen. I could see why she’d been chosen a year ago for this job; she was a great fit. I was a little intimidated to follow in her footsteps, and yet, for this moment, I felt gloriously free from comparison. “You were handpicked for this,” she told me. “The RSs pray so much over this whole process and God chose exactly the right floor for you. This is where you’re supposed to be.” Last year, she had stood in my shoes and it had been her receiving this truth in faith; now, it was me. And it was equally true for both of us, though I could already feel how different we were. I loved that God could do that.

“So…what are they like?” It was a broad question, but she’d know how to answer. I tried impossibly to picture their faces, to imagine what their presence felt like. I knew they were waiting, even in this moment, anxious and aching and just a little excited. I remembered what it was like to be in their place, too.

“They’re really intentional about floor community,” she said, and I heard a whisper of an answer to my biggest prayer, that they would love each other. She said they made things happen by themselves, independently fostering the community they wanted to see. “They don’t really need an RA,” she continued. “You’re just there to facilitate.”

Somewhere in me, my “need to be needed,” which had gone somewhat unmet this semester, cried out. I hushed it. An independent floor? God’s provision was evident here, too—because I didn’t really need to be needed. I needed Him. I needed to be thrust into a community that wasn’t desperate for me and still wanted me to be a part of it. Already, I could see why God picked this floor.

“Do you know what a pizookie is?” Amy was asking.

I frowned and shook my head.

“It’s a cookie in a pan with ice cream on top,” she enlightened me, talking with her hands. “We have a tradition on the floor that anytime someone has a birthday, we make them a pizookie. So the girls are making you one right now, to welcome you.”

Again, I wanted to cry tears of thanksgiving for the grace of God. My stomach was still in knots and I prayed God would bring my appetite back before I got there. I wanted to be able to receive the gift of their welcome to its fullest extent.

In a few minutes, all of the pairs of incoming and outgoing RAs were ready to go meet the floors. Sarah came up to me before I left with Amy, concern written gently on her face. “Are you okay? You’ve seemed a little...” She trailed off and mimicked my tightly drawn posture.

“Oh yeah!” I said, overcompensating a little. “Just nervous.”

Sarah had conducted my interview a couple of months ago, so she knew me a little better than the others around. “You don’t have to please anybody tonight,” she said, smiling.

I knit my brows and sighed, trying to feel that truth. “Thank you for that.” Then I looked at Amy, mustering confidence, and stepped through the door. “Let’s go.”

…

The elevator door opened and there they were, throwing balloons. There was music somewhere in the background and all of them were dancing and cheering, grinning at me with such open welcome that I was surprised. They really were excited.

I knew I should dance with them, but I just wanted to look at their faces, to study them until I had a grasp on who each one was. That was my preferred method of getting to know people. Just let me sit there quietly with wide eyes and an open heart. Speech would come later.

But that was not part of the task right now. I would have a whole year, maybe even two, to study them and know their hearts—and what a joyful thought! Tonight, though, my job was to open up to them, to allow them to see my heart so they could at least get a sense of what next year would be like. Losing Amy would probably be hard for most of them; tonight, we eased them in.

They led me to the lounge and sat me down, most of them piling around me in every available seat. A few of them spilled out of the kitchen, half joining the lounge conversation and half watching the pizookie in the oven. Amy handed me a mug filled with little treats, a welcome gift, and a card. “Newest Llama Mama,” the envelope read, a nod to the floor’s mascot. I wondered later if Amy had written it, and if those had been hard words for her to write.

“You can read it now or later,” she told me.

I looked at it for a moment. “I’ll read it later,” I said, tucking it beside my feet. If I read it now, no one would know how to respond, and I wanted to savor their words.

Amy asked what I wanted to do and we decided on questions, so we opened up the floor. Instantly, a hand went up. “What’s your favorite sound?”

“Hmmm.” I thought for a moment and smiled. “Well, recently, the sound of my Israel group talking on the bus. I recorded it.”

“Awwww!” they said together.

“Cats or dogs?” someone else asked.

“Oh, you guys are gonna hate me after I answer this question,” I said, “but cats.”

“Me, too!” came several shouts, and I stopped holding my breath. Acceptance came in such silly little expressions sometimes, but I needed them all the same.

“What’s your Myers-Briggs?”

“Ugh, well before I came to Moody, it was INFP, but since being here, it’s changed and now it’s ISFJ.”

“What’s your enneagram?”

“Two.” And after that, I couldn’t resist: “Anybody here know theirs?”

“Four.”

“Six!”

“Nine!”

“Seven.”

I grinned. Such a good mix. I looked around the room and felt them growing a space in my heart, even though I couldn’t even remember most of their names. I envisioned this time next year, when I would know them and be one of them. “Oh, it’s just so good to see all your faces!” I said in a lull, affection spilling over from places I hadn’t ever been aware of before.

Another hand went up. “What have you struggled with thus far in your life?”

I’d waited for this one. There was usually at least one deep, soul-searching question during these gatherings, and I was thankful it had come. It meant there would be more than small talk in the future, more than surface level interaction. “All right,” I said, after pondering my answer. “I’m not gonna tell you everything tonight—we’ll have more conversations in the future. But I will tell you this.” And I told them a tiny bit of my history, how God had so rescued me from anxiety that I could travel the world and stand here before them. They grew quiet while I spoke, respectful and open, truly listening. I was sure they didn’t even realize they were doing it, but it blessed and ministered to me more deeply than even I knew in the moment. Later, I told my small group, “They were genuinely welcoming. I was expecting hostility, because I felt a little hostile last year, but I felt like they…wanted me there.” Already I was experiencing the strange and humbling phenomenon often reported by RAs: that the ministry we expect to have to others instead comes to us through others.

They brought the pizookie out, sang their traditional pizookie song, and gave me the first mouth-watering bite. My appetite did indeed return and I blessed the Lord that I would taste this over and over again next year. When we had finished the entire pan, they laid their hands on me and prayed over me, a gift I struggled to freely receive. It was too much, far too much! I was supposed to be helping them and here they were showering me with support and affection before I had even done anything.

It was grace and gospel, really, an echo of what Christ had done for each of us. As I danced out with them—and they rode the elevator all the way down with me!—my heart was full. Learning to love these sisters would be a joy and a challenge, and I couldn’t wait.

…

The next day, I sat with my small group for lunch and someone asked how last night had gone.

“It was really good,” answered one of the girls. “I was listening to the girls talk about their community and I was like, ‘This is literally everything I hoped and prayed for!’”

“Me, too!” Every head around the table nodded, incredulous. No one could believe that all of us had been so well placed. Later, I told a friend about it, and, after exulting with me, she said, “Why do we expect anything less of God?”

I was reminded of the prayer I’d learned to pray in Israel: “Lord, don’t just meet my expectations—exceed them.” He said He could do exceedingly abundantly more than that all I could ever ask or imagine, and here was the proof, right before my very eyes.

So I asked Him to do it again, over and over, and to remind me to bless His Name every time I saw Him answer.