Do you remember how you felt the first time you had to give a speech in school? The sleepless nights, the endless outlines of ideas. Your mom's patience. You probably dreaded it for weeks, even months. Maybe the date of your presentation is still emblazoned in the back of your mind: February 18 like a big, black death sentence.
I still feel like that, almost every day. Don't get me wrong - I love my job. I love my kids. I'm not about to quit or run off; there is nothing I would rather be doing. In fact, youth ministry and I have fit together in a way I didn't expect, a surprisingly compatible match for a weird introvert like me. (Turns out lots of teens are weird introverts, too.)
But there is a certain aspect to Christianity, to life itself, that makes you feel as if you are always on trial. On trial - that this might be temporary, and if you ever displease us then off with her head. On trial - that your motives are questioned and people called to witness your actions. On trial - and you wake up each morning wondering what you'll be accused of today, wondering if you're guilty after all. Your past
I cheated on my Pottermore sorting quiz just like everyone else. I read the questions wondering - not what my preference was - but what answer would get me bragging rights for the house I wanted. Where wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure, and you have to be smart enough to answer riddles to get into the common room, I was more proud of the day I was sorted in Ravenclaw than the day I graduated college. Or high school. Combined.
The funny thing about the sorting is that (without geeking out too hardcore here) the house you want is the house you get sorted into. Harry doesn't want Slytherin; he gets Gryffindor.