Where I found my people

I never dreamed I’d find my people there. It was 4 years ago when I sneaked into my first writer’s conference. Sure, I had paid for registration, but there was no doubt in my mind: I was an impostor. I did not belong with these poets and authors, journalists and novelists, but I slipped in anyway, careful to camouflage myself with the crowd, eyes down, hoping no one would notice or ask to see my work.

What I discovered, however, with wonder and joy and awe: I did belong. Not only that, I came home, breathless, and announced to Jeff: These are my people!

Last weekend I once again attended the Faith & Culture Writer’s Conference, and was reminded afresh: These are my people. Of course, there’s very much a part of me that doesn’t fit there. They use the word “space” a lot, and I think they all love poetry. I’m actually quite left-brained: I like logic and linear thinking. I’m sequential, and I like facts. There we are referred to as “Creatives” (I’m not sure when that word became a noun), and this makes me feel strange.

There were moments of feeling painfully out-of-place, but although we were not all identical, those are my people, and as I listened to their voices, they showed me parts of humanity, parts of myself, parts of our God, that I hadn’t seen before. I loved my experience there.

I love my people there. 

Driving home from the conference I remembered back to my first time teaching a retreat for Mountain Ministries, a drug rehab and discipleship facility. They were tatted up like nobody’s business and sharing stories of—WOW!—sordid pasts, and I felt so incredibly intimidated and ill-equipped as I stood up, squeaky clean, to teach Scripture, sure they’d lean back and fold their arms and narrow their eyes and retort, “And what do you know???”

But they didn’t.  As we devoured God’s Word together and worshipped Him with all our hearts I was so overwhelmed by the powerful realization: These are my people! I wanted to stay there, live there, amongst these; the poor in spirit who recognize the greatness of grace and who live lives of lavish love. (Since I couldn’t live there I got one of them to come live with me!)

And then as I finished the drive home that day, I rounded the corner and saw our yard: my kids running free, chasing around that ridiculous red exercise ball, and I laughed to myself and couldn’t help but say out loud, These are my people! These, this family—they know me, sides of me that no one else knows.  These are my people.

And then the next morning I gathered those little people into the car and we headed a few blocks through town and pulled up at the beloved Revival Building, where our local church gathers to worship each week. And this particular Sunday another local church had joined us. We’re all different. And of course half of us had never met each other but we introduced ourselves and slid in and sat close and sang songs and lifted our hands to the One True God, the King of Kings.

We dipped our bread together into one communion cup and all sang:

Scandal of Grace, You died in my Place so my soul will live!

And our voices rose together as one, and I thought: These are my people.

How often I have wasted time trying to find people just like me, thinking these are my people.

I’ve found my people in the places where I didn’t pick and choose[bctt tweet=”I’ve found my people in the places where I didn’t pick and choose.”]I’ve found my people in the places where I didn’t pick and choose, in the places where I never thought I would. And finding my people in places like these has helped me find more of myself and more of the God who is building a kingdom from every tribe, tongue and nation. He gathers us together for one glorious purpose—to declare over us with joy: These are My people.

{Thank you for being my people as well. I’m so grateful you are here. Happy Monday; thanks for reading.}