The Painful Price of Joy

I have pretty severe chronic hypersomnia, so I'm always a long way past "I need a nap". But today, I’m tired—even by my standards. Our church's annual student conference wrapped last night, and between the worship, the Word, and the wild games, I literally limped away from the weekend physically emptied but spiritually full.

It's more than just a conference, more than a series of meetings and meals. It's two solid days of watching God move in people's hearts, like His own supernatural version of "take your child to work day." Almost five hours on Friday evening. Nearly fifteen on Saturday. And scarcely enough time in between episodes of spiritual growth for everyone to rush home, fall into bed, take a nap, and get ready to show up again with a smile and a fresh outpouring of sacrificial love.

Twenty hours of youth ministry, of Christian leadership working to open doors for God moments that show students there is joy in service and purpose in pain. And that time fills up fast—with small group conversations that foster healing from trauma, unexpected generosities that make joy overflow in rivers of tears, and countless arms sore today from time spent reaching toward God like children stretching to take a trusted father's hand.

That's when I remember why I love being a small group leader. Why I'm thankful for the privilege of struggling to balance faith and fatigue. Because in those moments, when 600 nearly teenagers gather together, tired but thankful, with full hearts open to hope...when the music ends and they're screaming, "One more song! One more song!"...when you can barely walk but you stand with hands raised and eyes streaming in gratitude...that, my friends, is when God shows up.

I've always thought the biggest blessings in life are hidden, tucked quietly away between the "little things."

Tired legs and sore feet mitigated by the gift of an elevator button. The trust buried beneath an over-the-shoulder, "I'll just leave my stuff with you." The partnership and protection of, "Wait here, I'll save our seats."

I ended the weekend with one knee nearly twice the size of the other. With pain at an all-time high, despite the very best of medication, elevation, and BioFreeze application. But somewhere between worship music and water games, I found healing that went deeper than physical pain, and between small group circles and handwritten sermon notes, I saw generosity that tore a hole in my heart—not to empty it, but to fill in and repair all the cracks.

In a semi-quiet hallway, a small group of tenth-grade girls opened up about insecurity. About fear. About seeing God in others.

In a crowded sanctuary brimming with spiritual energy, a few dozen teens made their way to center stage, where they knelt together and welcomed a call to ministry. Heads bowed, eyes closed, hearts hungry, they prayed boldness and courage over themselves and each other. My youngest daughter was among them, her face hidden behind her curtain of waist-length chestnut hair.

A quiet hallway conversation about servant leadership and lessons from ministry turned into a deep dive on trauma and grace. Compassion and understanding shared over taco bowls.

But the moment that wrecked me most deeply was quiet. Simple. My little daughter, still sometimes careless in her teenaged pursuit of instant gratification and potty humor, came to me with twinkling blue eyes and a smile. Her group leader her offered to treat her to a bit of conference merch—and my daughter, only half-aware of what the gesture might mean, chose a gift for me instead.

Surprised, I took the shirt and held it up, reading the printed back. Clear eyes. Full hearts. Can't lose. "Why did you do this?"

Shrugging, she smiled again, and tipped her head as she leaned in for a hug. “You need presents, too,” she whispered.

And when she walked away, I wadded the shirt in my lap. I blinked fast. Wiped away silent tears. Because I spend my professional life as a writer hoping to share stories people will be moved by...but I spend my personal life pouring into the children I love, parenting through faith that sustains my spirit even when times are hard and money is short and my body is breaking down.

Because I felt seen, and poured into.

Because the gift I received...well, it was so much more than a shirt.

*****

I’m still tired. Still hurting. Still hobbling around my house like a drunk octogenarian. But I wouldn’t trade a second of what got me here, because there’s something special about joy that comes with a price tag. Something holy in happiness that supersedes pain. Because when you serve with everything you have (even all you have is fumes) God shows up and even the most desperately broken places begin to heal.

And maybe that’s what this weekend was really about—not just tired leaders and rowdy students and long hours. Maybe it's a reminder that love poured out leaves room for joy poured in.

So yes, I’m tired. But I’m also full. And the joy? The joy is what's helping me...

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