Confessions of a Recovering Youth Minister

Last weekend, I went kicking and screaming to a youth event.

For someone who spent most of her life in youth ministry, this should have been like coming home. There was a time when I could decode teenage slang, survive on three hours sleep after a retreat and convince young people that praying the Rosary was, in fact, a perfectly acceptable Friday night activity.

Then 2020 happened.

When I laid my youth ministry calling at the feet of Jesus, I quietly decided that I was no longer going to spend my life trying to be forever twenty-five (although I swear, I still look it). Instead, I wanted to discover what it really meant to become the woman God was shaping me into.

It sounded wonderfully spiritual. In reality, it mostly involved accepting that my knees now make noises my mouth didn’t authorise and that I get out of my car with full sound effects.

So, there I was last weekend, I entered Toppers and was so grateful when I saw my birthday twin who actually shows off his grey hairs. He was one of the event coordinators and seemed genuinely happy to see me.

My friends who invited me are both actively involved with youths in various facets of what they do and convinced me that it was a fact-finding mission for our upcoming event. We found a seat in the far corner of the room, and I ordered my go-to mood enhancer at Malta Carib and sat back and exhaled!

The young people began arriving. Stylish and confident. So full of life and beauty and wonder. They were young adults, now discovering the world and making pronouncements of how they think life can be.  They were busy taking selfies from angles that defy both gravity and anatomy. Meanwhile, I was trying to remember if skinny jeans were still fashionable or if they had already become archaeological artefacts. I casually looked around, hoping I still appeared… cool. Then it hit me.

Buh AA! I no longer wanted their approval. What a glorious relief!

What is happening here?

For years I had unknowingly measured my relevance by how well I could keep up with the next generation. But sitting there, watching them laugh and dream and plan their futures, I realised they didn’t need another woman desperately trying to prove she still belonged in their world.

They needed women who had lived.

Women who had survived heartbreak without becoming bitter. Women who had buried dreams only to discover God had planted better ones. Women who had learned that peace is far more fashionable than popularity. Growing older has quietly become one of God’s greatest gifts.

Age has taught me that I don’t have to attend every argument I’m invited to. It has taught me that silence is often wiser than the perfect comeback and that saying “No” can be an act of holiness.

Best of all, growing older has liberated me from the exhausting ministry of impressing people. Our culture spends billions convincing women that every wrinkle is an emergency. Heaven seems to think otherwise.

Scripture is wonderfully full of older women who were just getting started. Sarah laughed at God’s promise before becoming a mother. Elizabeth carried the forerunner of Christ after years of waiting. Anna spent decades worshipping in the Temple before recognising the Messiah. God never saw their age as a limitation. He saw it as preparation.

Every laugh line now reminds me that I have laughed. Every scar reminds me that I healed. Every disappointment reminds me that God remained faithful.

As I sat in that youth event, I realised something beautiful. I didn’t want to be mistaken for one of the young people anymore. I wanted to be the woman they could come to when life broke their hearts. Because eventually, every young woman becomes an older woman. When that day comes, she won’t need someone who mastered Tik Tok, although and just for the record, I have mastered Tik Tok. She’ll need someone who mastered grace, which I am working on. I’ve decided that’s much better than looking cool.

As Proverbs 31:25 reminds us, “She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.”