How teens show love

I got my first job as Youth Director in 2010. Before that, I was a youth counselor, youth intern, whatever you want to call it. No one really cared what my title was; all it meant was that I hadn't graduated seminary yet. When I became a Youth Director, suddenly, it felt like a big deal.

The most noticeably cushy part of the job, admittedly, was the big shiny gold nameplate by my office door:

My Name

Youth Director

For the first few weeks, it felt good to walk past my door and glance at it. Surely, such an imposing nameplate meant that I was a Very Important Person, a person of whom to Take Note, a person whom all the youth would assuredly Respect and Love. 

Until one day. 

It was late on a Sunday afternoon. I had been doing some work at my desk after church, and the youth had been playing around outside the office door. I knew they were probably up to something, but I've learned sometimes it's better to pretend to be deaf if you don't want to be disturbed. I finally wrapped up and went outside. The kids had long finished and gone downstairs, and as I turned to shut and lock my door, I glanced as a matter of habit, at my precious nameplate. 

Only now, it didn't read "Youth Director." It read:

Youth Dictator

All my carefully-built illusions of being a Very Important Person came crashing down in an instant. I wasn't a hero, a beloved leader to my subjects... I didn't inspire Respect and Love. I didn't have their undivided admiration. In that moment, I saw myself how they saw me: a dictator. Sigh. 

*   *   *

Well, the dictator thing went dormant for awhile. But dormant doesn't mean dead. The following year, on Counselor Appreciation Day, they made me a big red flag with a yellow Communist symbol on it. They hung it up on the youth room (I must remember to take that down before newcomers doubt the affiliation of our church).

This past summer, we went on a week-long mission trip to Idaho. During the first day on the road, we stopped to relax at a river, and most of the kids went wading and swimming. I remember asking one of my co-leaders, "Am I being too strict?" (This was after forbidding them to cliff-dive and, incidentally, right before one of them sliced her foot open in the river). "Nooo..." he replied hesitantly, "You're just... protective..." 

Well, I tried to lighten up a bit after that, but it was no use. Shortly afterward on the trip, I somehow acquired the nickname: Mama Stalin. And groan as I might, it stuck.

*   *   *

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago. My commissioning ceremony as a youth minister, a very big and exciting deal in my professional life. My parents were there, my in-laws were there, and several of my good friends came to cheer and support me. It was a very special ceremony and I felt loved and cared for. After the service, we were getting ready to be seated at the luncheon, when my beloved kids come up and present me with this:

[picture of the whole board]

[zoom in on tasks for the day]

Ah well. Nothing like kids for taking you down a peg or two. And looking at that noticeboard, I finally shrugged and gave up. I was fighting the nickname because I didn't want to be seen as ridiculous. But I finally realized... the very fact that I'd been given the nickname meant they loved me. I just needed to learn to recognize it as love. 

*   *   *

I was reminded once more this past week. Wanting to show my student leaders how much I care about them, I mailed them some encouragement notes. On Friday, at youth group, one of them approached me. 

Student: Hey Joni, guess what?

Me: What?

Student: Today, my mom told me to go outside and get the mail. Then, just as I did, I saw a big guy open our mailbox and grab it all! I thought about chasing him, but I saw how big he was and decided against it. 

Me: Hm, sorry, that sucks. 

Student: Well, Joni. I did see there was this blue envelope sticking out of the pile... too bad that guy stole all our mail. I hope it wasn't anything IMPORTANT.

Me: (finally catching on) Ohh... yeah, no... probably not. :)

You learn not to fight back. Just smile and say, "You're welcome." 

Because, in their language, that's their way of saying thanks.