Over the past few months, I’ve been helping plan my church’s women’s retreat. Usually we have several volunteers (of whom I have been one for many years) who all help with organizing the details. Usually the head of women’s ministry takes care of a lot of the nitty-gritty and behind-the-scenes details.
Not so much this year. Some of the women who normally volunteer to help moved or stopped attending our church. Some were busy. Some were willing to help but in a limited capacity.
So the planning committee consisted of three. The head of women’s ministry, myself, and one other.
And the head of women’s ministry took time off to have a baby.
So, the majority of the planning and organizing and putting together of all the little things that make an event come together fell to me and the other woman.
I hate being in charge. I’m terribly disorganized and having all that responsibility terrifies me. But someone had to do it, and I was there.
Even now, when all the details are set and everything is in order, I’m still worried that I missed something or messed something up, that I’m going to disappoint someone or something is going to go wrong and it’s all going to be my fault.
And I am left with the thought, “When did I become someone who was mature enough to be relied on for important stuff?”
Then, a few weeks ago, a woman who is considerably older than I am came to me with concerns about a mutual friend who is also considerably older than I am. The reason she came to me was because in the course of a conversation she and the other friend had had recently, my name came up, so she knew I was someone who “speaks truth in her life.”
Now, not only would I have never imagined this woman looked up to me, I never would have dreamed I was someone that either of these women would see as a mature, wise, or influential in their lives.
Apparently, somewhere between the last nine years that I’ve been at my church or the five children I’ve borne or the various ministries I’ve been involved in, people thought I grew up.
I’m still insecure. I’m still winging it most of the time. I’m still opinionated and immature and prone to giving in to temptation. And I’m pretty sure I’m not old enough to be one of the grown-ups.
But I’m willing. I’m willing to step up and do what needs to be done. I’m willing to try. I’m willing to be used.
And maybe that’s what maturity is, after all.